Culpabilité
by Pensez-a-Erik
Summary: Guilt- the state of one who has committed an offense, especially consciously. Both Erik and Christine are well-acquainted with guilt, but perhaps it is not too late to right their wrongs. Or will they sink deeper into the abyss?- Discontinued
1. Gustave

**I decided to do something unique, something I hadn't seen before. What if Christine** ** _didn't_** **allow Erik to threaten her the way he did, instead choosing to fight back? What would happen? Here, is what I would think follow.**

* * *

When the former Phantom had appeared in her flat, Christine, initially, thought she was hallucinating. The man who had, for nearly all of her childhood, masqueraded as the Phantom and her Angel of Music was supposed to be dead. He _had_ to be dead! She had heard Raoul's words, spent months grieving, and had moved on. That part of her life was over and done with.

Yet, all she had experienced proved against that mindset. He was alive, and not only that, but wishing for her to sing again.

On top of that, he had threatened her son. Her _son._ Gustave was her pride and joy, the one thing that had kept her going through her hardest moments. This _Mr Y_ dared ruin that?

No, that was not something she would allow, not if she could fight.

XXxxXX

It was difficult to rouse herself out of bed the next morning, instinctively glancing in the direction of Gustave's room. She felt the urge to check on him; make sure his real father hadn't abducted him after she forced herself to sleep. She gripped the sheets of the bed nervously. Was he alright?

She left the room under the pretense of making tea to check his room. Sure enough, Gustave was curled up in his bed, blankets pulled up to his chin. She let out a sigh of relief. _He is alright, you need to stay calm,_ she thought to herself, closing the door and leaning against the frame. Next time she saw the Phantom, she would make her opinions clear. No more deceits, no more lies. Her choice to sing would be just that; her choice, and hers alone.

She ought to start on the tea she had promised, Raoul would be up at any moment. Christine settled for making a few cups of tea for their breakfast, filling the kettle with room-temperature water and setting it to boil. It would be a few more minutes before it would be ready, which gave her a good ten minutes to distract herself.

There was a small bookshelf nestled in the corner, filled with old, weathered books. Grasping the first one she saw, Christine flipped through the pages, immersed in the words. An old novel, fortunately in French, was what her hands wrapped around. It was a romance, perfect and with a happy ending. If only _she_ could find such an ending, one where she wasn't stuck in a constant tug of war that she didn't wish to participate in.

Then there went her thoughts, whirling angrily about her situation. The Phantom- or Mr. Y, as she'd been told, was incredibly self-centered, cruel and-

Raoul entered, yawning and leaning on the countertop and pointing at the tea. Christine set back her novel and turned to face him, a reassuring yet frazzled expression on her face. "Good morning," she welcomed.

He nodded. "I think the tea is done by now, dearest."

 _Oh, right._ Christine hurried over, using an oven pad to remove the kettle and inserting the necessary tea leaves. She glanced up at the clock. "I'm surprised Gustave has awoke yet. He typically wakes early." It was only to stir conversation, but Raoul seemed to be thinking deeply about what she had said.

"Do you suppose he is ill?" he blinked at her. Christine shrugged in response. As long as he wasn't in the clutches of the Phantom, she could care less about whether or not he had a cold. Heartless or not, she could think of nothing worse than raising her son with him, after all he'd done.

Perhaps a year or two ago she would have been more lenient. It was only recently that he had threatened her family; perhaps irrevocably in her eyes. She would _not_ stand for it. In fact, she made up her mind then and there.

"Raoul, I'm going out for a bit. I'll see you after rehearsals, alright?" she grinned at him, pouring a good amount of the tea into a porcelain cup. Raoul nodded as she handed him the cup and saucer, then left to grab her cloak. How would she tell him? Face-to-face? Was it even _safe_? Those thoughts echoed inside her mind as she strode down the cobblestone streets, her eyes staring straight ahead. She had the air of someone determined to achieve her goal, and who would not be deterred easily.

She found herself at the doors of the theatre. Wrapping her hands around the brass handles, she yanked, stepping back as the entrance swung open with ease, fancy and carved. If she weren't so angry, she most likely would have stopped to admire the view. It truly was magnificent.

But instead she strode through, only pausing to ask a few workers for directions to Mr. Y's office. Whether it be how determined she appeared, or some other reason for intimidation, the poor ballerina she stopped looked terribly frightened by her request.

And thus, racing as fast as she could while still preserving some sense of normalcy, she weaved through the hallways. While each hall was identical, they were all well-lit with tall columns reaching up to the ceiling, once again carved with surprisingly realistic flowers into the dark brown furnishing. Every few paces or so hung a small gold chandelier, and underfoot was mahogany wood floorboards. Christine noticed none of it, only stopping when she found herself arrived at a small staircase leading up to a dark door. There was no hint that it was the former Phantom's office other than the gold plaque that was placed above. _Mr Y._

Thrice she knocked on the door, running her fingers through her hair. Filled with a sudden wave of nervousness, she tried to quell it with more determined thoughts. This _had_ to be done-for her and her family. She refused let them live in fear. She needed this.

"Come in," his voice announced. Deep, gruff. Even after a decade apart it sent shivers up her spine, gave her a tingly feeling in the pit of her stomach. Ignoring all of it, she turned the knob and pushed through.

Immediately their eyes met, and she felt a little fazed as he appeared surprised to see her standing there. Did he honestly think she would allow him to blackmail her like that? She wasn't a young girl anymore, and she planned on firmly telling him as much.

"Christine." his lone visible eyebrow raised, and he nodded to the seat on the other side of the desk he sat at.

She responded with a glare. "Actually, it's Madame de Chagny. And I prefer to stand." She gave him a thin-lipped smile, and a fleeting expression of dismay at her statement passed across his face, so fast she almost thought she had envisioned it.

"Very well," he sighed. "Why exactly are you here? Are you going to accept my proposal?"

Christine scoffed, planting her hands on the chair opposite to prop herself up. " _Proposal?_ Hardly. First you lure me across the world under false pretenses, second, you threaten my family, and then you dare think I would EVER in my right mind accept?"

She took a deep breath, drawing strength from the bewildered expression on the former Phantom standing before her. "I thought you were cruel before, but now you've _really_ crossed the line. Goodbye."

WIth that she turned, striding to the only exit and opening it once again. Behind her he stood up, circling in front of the desk. "You remember what I told you would happen if you dared leave, remember?"

 _You would abduct Gustave?_ She didn't turn to face him, only shook her head. She slammed the door shut behind her as she left.

Waiting a few moments to see if he would follow (he did not,) she felt all her vigor leave, slouching against the wall. She suddenly felt very, _very_ tired.

XXxxXX

Upon her arrival at her the hotel room, Raoul was sitting in the parlor, a newspaper in hand. He only glanced up at her as she closed the door slowly. She had not realized she had been holding her breath until she exhaled, closing her eyes for a moment. What had she _done_?

"Where's Gustave?" she asked tentatively, letting her hands fall at her sides. Raoul shrugged, flipping the newspaper page to read the back.

"Still in bed."

Thanking him for nothing in particular, she opened the door a crack. Gustave's sleeping form hadn't shifted since she had checked in on him earlier. Relieved, she moved into the kitchen to make herself another cup of tea.

A few hours had passed and Gustave had not yet woken. She glanced over at his door. It was then half-past twelve, and lunch had come and gone. Raoul was out at one of the local bars, leaving her and Gustave home alone. "I suppose I should wake him," she murmured to herself, opening the door to her son's room. "Gustave," she called softly. "It's time to wake."

Met with silence, she walked over to touch his form only to find it sunk from her touch. She ripped away the blanket to find a wax mannequin taking his place, falling on the floor as she unveiled the figure. She stepped back, crying out. "Gustave!"

The window was wide open, the curtains waving vigorously in the wind. She stared with wide, doe-like eyes as the former Phantom's words rang in her ear. _Vanish here, on Coney Island…_

She fell to the floor, her eyes wide. He was gone, her son was _missing,_ stolen by the very same man that had summoned them to this damnable place.

"Phantom," she hissed, her hands fisting in her dress, nails digging into the fabric as she glared at the open frame with anger.

"You will _not_ get away with this, I can guarantee you that."

* * *

 **What are your thoughts? I feel the need to mention that this fic is DEFINITELY e/c.**

 **Please review!**


	2. Sacred Heart

**Short chapter, I know. I'm hoping to continue this because I like its premise, and I need to write something that gets someplace, for once! Anyway, here is a long overdue _chapter two._**

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" _Quand je marche dans la rue_

 _La rue vers le Sacré-Cœur_

 _Je me souviens des promesses_

 _Au nom de l'amour…_ "

The soft voice of someone singing slowly awoke Gustave from his slumber. The small child rubbed his eyes, yawning. _Where am I?_ He thought tentatively, squinting up at the figure above him. Whoever was holding him sung like an _angel,_ his soft voice threatening to lull him back to sleep. Gustave yawned, and the singing stopped.

"Ah, little Vicomte," the man said, turning his head slightly as to be able to gaze down at him. "It seems you have awoken."

Gustave blinked away the rest of the sleepiness, examining this newcomer. This man was quite tall, and wore a porcelain half-mask upon his face. _I wonder why,_ he thought to himself, and smiled a bit. "Yeah," he replied. "I did."

The small boy then paused, tilting his head. "Why'd you stop singing? You're good." Gustave pouted a little bit. "I wish _I_ could sing that well."

The masked man chuckled. "It's nothing a little practice can't fix. I could teach you, I suppose. Would you like that?"

Gustave was about to reply with a hearty ' _yes!'_ when he recalled his mother's words. " _Don't talk to strangers!"_

"Um," he glanced down at his fingers. "I dunno, Mother is probably worried about me by now- maybe I should go back."

The man's smile faltered, although Gustave hadn't realized the masked newcomer had even been smiling. "I'm afraid that cannot happen," he began. "Your mother wanted me to take care of you while she practices for her concert."

Gustave didn't catch the lie, instead nodding. "Oh," was all he said. "Then I guess you _can_ teach me to sing!"

The masked man looked down warmly at the boy. "Indeed I can." He set Gustave down, taking the child by the hand. "Just follow me, we're close to my home, and after a cup of tea, we can begin."

XXxxXX

"Gustave?" Raoul's voice echoed from down the street, where he, Christine and a few others, were searching. The sky was dark, the damp night air causing Christine's hair to stick to her face. "It's gonna rain," a man to her right said, glancing over at her. Christine gulped, looking around. "I-I need to keep searching, I won't stop until I find Gustave!" _God knows what has happened to him while he is in HIS clutches._

A soft hand landed to rest on her shoulder, and she whirled around to face a very nervous Raoul. Taking deep breaths to calm her shaky self, she met Raoul's eyes. "Yes?" her voice quivered. Raoul gave her a sympathetic look, pulling her in for a stiff, uncomfortable hug.

"I know you're worried sick about Gustave, but dear, it's quite late. We won't gain any ground now, we should leave the officers to finding him for now. We can keep searching in the morning, alright?"

Christine extracted herself from the embrace, placing her hands on his chest and pushing away. A loud crack of thunder shook her from her thoughts. For a moment she seemed like she was about to argue, but as rain began to fall, heavy and wet, she decided otherwise. At least with the former Phantom she knew for sure that he would be relatively safe, but it was crucial she rescued her son as soon as possible.

"Alright," she sounded small and frightened, and Raoul wrapped an arm around her. "Shh now, it'll be fine."

"Right."

Christine looked away from his worried gaze. _There's no reason Raoul would be worried,_ she thought bitterly. _It's not as if he ever truly cared for Gustave. How is it that now, when he is missing, that he finally shows an ounce of affection?_

The realization stung, but it was the truth. Christine shrugged away his arm, stalking ahead of him. _He_ would sleep elsewhere.

XXxxXX

Gustave sat beside him on the piano bench, tapping anxiously on the wood seat beneath him. "You can play!" he exclaimed, bewildered and amazed. The masked man gave him an amused glance. "Indeed I do, little Vicomte. I assume your mother taught you to play?" he motioned to the piano keys, and Gustave gave one an experimental press. "Yeah, how did you know?"

The masked man only smiled, but said nothing more. Taking this an invitation to play, Gustave began to play, his little fingers dancing along the ivory keys. He didn't glance up, and missed the fleeting look of surprise on the older man's face.

"Well," he whispered after a long moment, watching the young boy play like an expert. "You certainly _can_ play."

And he would have watched him play forever, if not noticing the way Gustave began to slouch, and his eyes began to droop, and close. Soon enough, the child had leaned into the older man's arm, fast asleep. The former Phantom let out a soft sigh, picking up the slumbering boy in his arms. He made his way across the flat, opening the door with his free hand and setting Gustave down onto the bed in the guest room, taking off his shoes and pulling the sheets up to his chin.

He moved to close the door, but paused, glancing back at Gustave's sleeping form. "Goodnight, little Vicomte," he whispered, and then silently shut the door.

XXxxXX

 _Elsewhere…_

Gripping his hat and pulling it down and wrapping his cloak tightly around his dark form, the man sighed. Nadir had known that the ship would take weeks to arrive, but he hadn't expected it to be so _boring._

Nevermind that, he had better things to worry about.

Like, how he was going to absolutely _flay Erik_ when he arrived. His knuckles tightened on the railing before him. Had the fool even paid heed to _one_ of his warnings? Considering their current situation, it seemed as if _no,_ he had not.

"Monsieur?" one of the crewmen glanced around, approaching the lone man. "Dinner is being served in the mess hall, if you are hungry."

"I'm not," he replied, shaking his head. Glancing back to see the crewman's worried expression, he issued an apology. "I didn't mean to come off as rude," he assured. "I'm just feeling troubled at the moment."

Nadir paused, letting go of the railing, and turning to face the other man. "Actually, could you get me a few bottles of beer? I feel like I might need it."

The man nodded, racing off. Nadir turned to face the water again, sighing and cupping his face with his hands. "Oh, Erik," he exhaled. "What am I to do with you?"

* * *

 **If someone could give me more things to call Erik other than 'masked man' until I use his real name, that would be nice. I'm rather unoriginal.**

 **Also,**

 **NADIR**

 **The song I used in the beginning of the chapter is _Sacred Heart_ by The Civil Wars, by the way.**


	3. Je la Laisse Partir!

Daytime had long passed, the moonlight cascading across the floorboards through an open window, illuminating the figure of Erik as he worked, scribbling on a piece of parchment. Besides the occasional sound when he shifted in his seat, the flat was silent. Gustave was asleep in the next room, and nobody was up at such a late hour. _Or early,_ he noted, glancing up at the grandfather clock that stood, regally in the far corner. It was barely three in the morning, yet it felt like only moments ago had the clock chimed, announcing that it had been midnight.

For once, Erik felt tired. Caring for Christine's son constantly had taken a toll on him, especially when he was only used to looking out for himself. He was unfamiliar with regularly buying new groceries, yet a part of him enjoyed indulging the young child.

Although only three days had gone by since he had stolen Gustave away, it was visible the boy missed his mother. _Why,_ Erik pondered as he set his pen down. _This is probably the longest he's ever been away from her!_

He tried to ignore the guilt as it bit through him. What he was doing was _wrong,_ and he knew it. After all, Gustave wasn't to blame for his mother's misdoings, so quite frankly, it made little sense to punish the young boy for them.

"But I am a man of my word," he muttered, his voice low. "I gave Christine her options, this is what she chose."

He sighed, standing up and sliding the chair back into the desk as quietly as he could, still afraid of waking Gustave. Erik made his way towards the door, rubbing his eyes.

Yet, before he could excuse himself, the entrance swung open with a bang, startling Erik. In the hall, stood a very, _very_ angry Nadir.

"Daroga!" he managed a weary smile. The Persian scowled in response, forcing his way through and into his office. "Impeccable manners as always, I see," he grimaced. "How did you even get in?"

His friend finally responded, swiveling and held up a key, his eyes flashing. "You _gave_ this to me in case of an emergency, remember? I daresay this is an emergency!"

"What in the name of the Gods are you talking about? I am perfectly fine."

Nadir's face flushed the color of dark crimson, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "Do you really believe me that stupid, Erik?" he replied, his voice rising. ""You think I wouldn't hear that the infamous Mr. Y had invited the de Chagny's to Coney Island? And then I come here and find you have her son in your house!"

Erik growled. "So _that's_ why you're here, then. To lecture me!"

"Erik, I told you to stay away. She left you, remember?" Nadir gestured around, wildly. "I know it's difficult to digest, but you don't _need_ her, or the child. Not to mention, this is quite illegal."

They stared at one another for a long moment, tension thick in the air. Erik narrowed his eyes. " _Et toi,_ Daroga. I think it might be hard for you to digest the fact that I _do not need you, either!_

"You act as if you are my conscience, and that is where you are very incorrect, my friend. I have gone without you for ten years, and I can go without you for ten more!"

Nadir was about to respond when he glanced down at the doorway, his face paling quickly.

"E-Erik!" he hissed.

"What?" Erik growled, swinging around, still alight with anger. He took a few deep breaths as he met the frightened eyes of Gustave. Filled with remorse, he knelt down to the young boy's level. The young vicomte was shaking as he took in Erik with wide, amber eyes. "Gustave?" he murmured his name, quietly. Nadir stared at both of them with unrestrained shock.

"I-I heard you yelling with the stranger and it woke me up and I was scared something happened to you so I came to i-investigate and you looked so _mad!"_ he choked out the sentence, a long string of run-on words. Erik placed his hands on the young child's shoulders, reassuringly. "Everything's alright, Gustave. An old friend of mine came to visit, and we just had a minor _disagreement_ ," he glared back at Nadir, who had resumed color and was still staring at Gustave, who shied away from the unwanted attention.

"Oh…" he gulped. "I heard him talking about Mother, though. He said that she left you," the boy paused, tilting his head. "Did you two know each other before? Mother has never mentioned you."

 _Never?_ Erik felt hurt, although he didn't know why. He had let her go, so why would she have any reason to mention him again? _In my exact words, I had said 'leave me now, never to tell…'_

Straightening, he sighed, running a hand through his wig. "Yes, your mother and I have a long history."

He paused, shaking his head.

"And she didn't leave me, it was the other way around. I let her go."

XXxxXX

By dawn the threesome had settled in the parlor, where Erik and Gustave sat on one of the loveseats, and Nadir on the other. The Persian examined both of them from his spot on the chair, leaning back. "Uncanny," he whispered. Gustave gave the older man a curious look, while Erik just seemed exasperated. "What is 'uncanny?'" he growled. "The only thing I find uncanny is the fact that you _are still here."_

Gustave let out a little giggle, which earned a slight grin in response from Erik, however fleetingly. Nadir sighed. "Fine, I'll take my leave for now, but I'll be back." Standing, he paused for a moment to glance at the other two. "Also, Erik?"

"What?"

"Please think of Christine. I know you, and I know that this façade won't stay up forever." With that, he left. Erik frowned, standing and walking over to close the door. Gustave was close behind him, and he could sense that the boy had questions, and _lots_ of them.

"So, uh, Monsieur?" he began, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Erik sighed. "Please, Gustave, call me Erik. There's no need for such formalities."

"Oh, okay, Erik," he took a few steps closer. "Last night you said that you let Mother go. Can you tell me more? She doesn't tell me many stories about what she was like before she married Father."

 _Why am I not surprised?_ Erik sighed, nodded and motioned for Gustave to take a seat. The young boy obeyed, waiting patiently. Erik took a seat across from him, where Nadir had previously sat. "So," he began. "Has Chri- your Mother told you about the Opera Populaire before?"

Gustave furrowed his eyebrows, thinking deeply. "I think so. That was the Opera-house where Mother sang at, right?"

Erik nodded, and Gustave's eyes lit up. "Mother told me about it! There was also a ghost there, who knocked down the chandelier, I read it in a newspaper, once. It sounds cool."

Folding his hands together, Erik watched the young boy curiously. 'Cool' wasn't precisely the word he would have used to describe the event, but he was intrigued nonetheless."Really now? What about a so-called _Opera Ghost_ do you find so intriguing?"

Gustave shrugged. "I don't know. That's really all I was told or found out, anyway. Besides the fact that Mother was _abducted_ by him!" The boy's grin widened. Again, his description came to mind.

Erik flinched, but Gustave didn't notice. "Well, yes, that part is true," he replied after a moment. "They never caught the man, either. That is, that's all I've heard." The last part was added a moment after.

"Really? Woah. In the paper that I read, Father had said that he attacked the ghost and that it had escaped while he was preoccupied with mother. Every time I bring it up, he brags about how he 'beat the beast.'"

" _What‽"_ Erik choked out, standing up with a crash. The coffee table before them rocked precariously as the masked man nearly knocked it over. "He said that?" Fists were once again clenched at his side as he paced the room. Gustave gulped, confused. "Yeah. Why are you mad?"

Erik growled immediately. "Because it's a lie, little Gustave. That, that _fop_ didn't beat me, I _let him go!"_

He caught his mistake immediately, stopping in his tracks to stare at Gustave, who looked equally shocked.

Then, in a flash, Erik had seemingly disappeared into thin air. Gustave gulped, wringing his hands in his lap. "M-Monsieur Erik?" he called out. There was no response.

XXxxXX

Erik let out a groan, falling onto the settee. Behind him, Nadir huffed. "I would ask you how you found where I was staying, but I think we have more pressing matters in our hands." The Persian leaned forward. "Where is Gustave? Why are you here?"

Erik gave him a withering look, taking off his mask and setting it down on the end table to his left. He rubbed his face, exhaling slowly. "I'm here because Gustave _knows."_

"Knows?" Nadir echoed. "Knows what?"

"That I was the Phantom! It was a slip of the tongue, he was telling me what he knew of the entire disaster," he threw his hands up in the air, exasperated as he said this, "and apparently de Changy had told him that I was beaten, as opposed to what actually happened."

"So you panicked, and left the boy alone, and most likely terrified." he turned, massaging the bridge of his nose with a hand. "Ridiculous. You're going to lose him one of these days, Erik. After all, he's only a child. I doubt he understood what you meant when you said whatever you said."

The masked man shook his head. "I probably already have, Nadir. I probably already have."

XXxxXX

One thing Erik had failed to do before vanishing, was lock the doors, Gustave realized as he quietly opened the front entrance. Before him stood a long street, people milling about as they explored Coney Island, and all the sights. It was much colder than it had been the last time Gustave had been outside, he realized with a shiver. The wind nipped at his ears and nose as he closed the door and ventured out. A few people gave him odd looks as he passed, but he paid no heed. _Maybe I can find Mother,_ he thought as he scanned the nearby buildings, recognizing none.

Mentally, he kicked himself. Why had he not paid more attention when he and mother had gone to their hotel room? He couldn't remember what the place they were staying was named, let alone what it looked like. Wringing his hands nervously, he glanced around. Perhaps he could find someone who could help him. If Mother was called all the way from Paris to sing, then she had to be famous, right?

With a sudden rush of bravery, Gustave crept forward, before tugging on the long skirt of a kind-looking woman with two young children in tow. "Hello?" he asked, eyes wide.

The woman looked down at him. "Hello," she tilted her head. "What's your name?"

"Gustave, and I was wondering if you knew where my mama, Christine de Chagny, was staying?"

The woman gave him a soft smile, reminding him painfully of his Mother. With that, a wave of homesickness washed over him. He wanted nothing more than to find his mother, and have her welcome him into her soft, safe arms.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid not." her voice was kind, but did nothing for his worrying. Trying his hardest not to cry, he nodded and thanked her.

"Are you lost?" she asked after a moment. Gustave paused, then shook his head. "N-no.

"I think I can find my way."

Soon the woman had to leave, bidding him goodbye and taking her children back to presumably the place they were staying. He watched, finally allowing himself to cry a little bit. Running as to not be seen, he slumped down beside two trash cans, pulling his legs up to his chest and resting his forehead on his knees, he began to sob softly.  
A moment later he felt a hand rest on his shoulder, and looked up hopefully. "Mother?"

He could envision her warm brown orbs for a moment, the soft way she grinned at him. He held his breath hopefully.

Instead, he met the bright yellow eyes of Erik. "Afraid not, little Vicomte." The older man reached out, wiping his tears away. "Why are you crying?" his voice was soft, much quieter than the yelling he had done earlier.

Once Erik had returned to the flat to find the young boy gone, he panicked, searching frantically before seeing the child race off into the dark alley between two of the buildings. His heart cracked a little to see Gustave so distraught, pulling him into a hug. The boy buried his face into his cloak. "I miss Mother," he whimpered, almost too muffled to hear.

"I know," Erik sighed. Followed by, even quieter,

"So do I."

* * *

 **Tell me your thoughts! I feel _very_ encouraged when I see a review.  
**


	4. Wisely and Slow

**I'm going to be pretty busy soon with testing in school coming up, so I'll post this now.**

 **Here's chapter four!**

* * *

For nearly the third night a row, Christine found herself unable to sleep. As opposed to sharing a bed with Raoul, she found herself reclining in the small settee by the window, watching out mournfully.

Running her hands through her chestnut curls, she reminisced silently.

Her and Raoul's marriage had been crumbling for years, it had surprised her when suddenly, on the day after Gustave went missing, that he had encouraged her to sleep in the same bed as him. "Just for comfort," he told her. Raoul and Christine hadn't been sleeping together oft as of late (sleeping was all they did, either way. They hadn't engaged in any more intimate acts for nearly half a decade, and if things were going the way Christine wished them to, the number would only continue to grow,) so his sudden keenness for them to share a bed struck her as odd.

Still, she couldn't summon the energy to turn him down, however much she wanted to.

Instead she had taken to not sleeping at all. Dark bags were set beneath her eyes, and she hadn't found the time to bath. Well aware of how repulsive she must appear, she found herself unable to care less. Her thoughts were only of Gustave, and occasionally, when her guard slipped, her former Angel of Music. The masked man had appeared in her dreams many times for _years,_ she only saw it depressingly fit that when she saw him again, they increased.

" _Mon Dieu,_ " she whispered, inhaling sharply. "I've made a mess of my life-of _all_ our lives."

She didn't love Raoul, not anymore. Perhaps at one point she had felt something akin to the warm, strong feeling, but it had quickly dissolved into nothing after he had begun drinking. Raoul had never laid a hand on her, yet his harsh words that he slurred at her when intoxicated were painful enough. How many nights had she lain awake in bed, sobbing over the happiness she could have had.

Again, it was all her fault.

With a shaky breath, up came all the repressed memories of what had seemed like so long ago. She had tried her hardest to forget her Angel of Music, the Phantom of the Opera, or _whatever_ his real name was-he'd never told her. God, how could she have been so blind? It was too late now, her son was missing and his true father was to blame.

Not that either of them knew.

Turning her face away in shame, Christine balled her hands into fists, pressing them against her eyes, willing the tears to stop from flowing. _I will not cry, I will_ not _cry-!_

Her thoughts went back to Gustave. Where was he now? She hoped dearly that he was safe, above all else. It had been only three days, but she still was filled with anxiety and terror. Raoul and the policemen sent to search for her son had all assured her he was fine, yet she knew better to hope.

Sick of pacing, Christine stood and stealthily slipped back into her now-shared room with Raoul. The Vicomte was still snoring away, his face shoved into the pillow, taking up all the sheets. He didn't stir even as she slipped out of her nightgown and into a more socially-acceptable outfit. Taking a few moments with the corset, she found herself prepared to go within an hour. The dress she had picked was dark green with white lacing-simple and nothing fancy. She found herself increasingly glad that her husband was not awake, knowing he would have snorted at her choice of attire. Christine could almost imagine him rolling his eyes and exclaiming something about appropriate wear, considering now she apparently was a _de Chagny._ No, she was, and always would be, a Daaé.

Skipping the task of pinning her hair up, she set out on a search of her own. Furrowing her brow as she slipped into the still-dark streets, Christine mentally prepared herself for the task at hand.

" _Attention, mon fantôme_ ," she murmured. " _J'arrive!_ "

XXxxXX

It was freezing outside. Indeed, the air had been chilly the past few days, but nothing of _this_ magnitude. Christine rubbed her cheeks in an effort to warm them up, her breath forming little billows in the air. She stuck to the sides of the streets, hands falling from her face to be fisted beneath her armpits. Still, she barely felt the nipping cold with her plan set in mind.

Barely anyone else was out, making her business all the while easier. A lone woman striding outside at an obscene hour in the morning would most definitely raise some eyebrows.

She found herself standing in the middle of a some sort of park, grass settled on both sides of the path underfoot. The pavement reached forwards a couple of paces before ending, surrounding the large fountain in the very center. Christine sighed. Great, was she lost?

Circling the fountain she saw a much less trodden path. It had no pavement, and was only discernible from the trampled grass and more frequent patches of mud, where no greenery grew. Tilting her head in curiosity, she followed.

It steepened down subtly, and she found herself suddenly grateful for the rising sun. While it was still cold, at least the growing warmth of the sun made it somewhat bearable.

At least, that's what she tried to tell herself.

Her fingers were slightly less colder as she pushed through a gate to a beach, the waves overlapping on the shoreline. Sighing, Christine gazed around. _It wouldn't hurt,_ she thought miserable, raising her hands to her mouth. "Gustave!" she called out, then froze.

Gustave couldn't swim.

Her mouth felt suddenly dry as she leaned against a nearby bench that she had failed to notice previously. It was still wet from rain and the sprays from the ocean, yet she barely felt it. _What if he drowned? All because of me._

"No," she whimpered plainly, jerking up from the seat in an instead and pacing down the shore. "I _won't_ think about that. Gustave's fine. He's with the Phantom, or the old Phantom, I suppose. He-he's safe."

She was too buried in her thoughts to notice herself running into a person, only noticing as hands wrapped around her forearms, wide blue eyes meeting hers.

"Christine!" Came a shrill gasp, and suddenly arms enveloped her, hugging her tightly. Christine stayed stiff.

"Meg?" she murmured after a moment. As her friend drew back, she felt her eyes burn. _No,_ she told herself. _You will_ not _cry again._

This time she was successful, fighting off the tears as she managed a watery smile. "It's nice to see you."

"Indeed! I've missed you SO much. But still-how are you doing? With Gustave missing and all."

 _Dammit,_ she thought, clenching her eyes shut. The tears surged up again at the mention of his name. "Okay, I guess," she lied. "I just hope he's safe."

"No wonder," Meg sighed, giving her a sympathetic look. "I assume you came here to look for him?"

Christine was about to agree when she stopped, clenching and unclenching her fists as she thought to herself.

"No, actually," she murmured. "I was wondering-do you know where Mr. Y lives?"

"Of course, everyone does," Meg replied, looking a little anxious. "Why?"

"I-I have some business to conduct with him. Could you lead me to him, please?"

"Well," her friend glanced back towards the shoreline. "Maybe we should talk to Maman first, it's not as if we can just waltz into his office without an invitation."

"Of course."

Partially annoyed by the delay while also excited at the prospect of meeting Mme Giry again, Christine trailed after her old friend, twirling her wedding ring nervously. She felt an ominous feeling creep over her, her eyes narrowing slightly at the familiar aura. Stopping in her tracks, she turned to glare up at a dark, seemingly empty building.

Just as they had appeared, the two yellow eyes had disappeared.

"Coward," she sniffed beneath her breath.

XXxxXX

After the obligatory hugs, tears and brief tour, Christine found herself seated across from Madame Giry and Meg, holding a small teacup in her hands.

She shivered underneath the Madame's intense gaze, feeling very much like a young ballet rat once again. "Christine," the older woman lectured. "While I am flattered you came to pay us a visit, it is incredibly early. Is there a particular reason you decided to say hello at _five?"_

"Madame Giry," she grinned. "I'm sorry for my abruptness, but actually, yes, I do have a reason."

She leaned forward, setting the teacup down on a coaster, glancing back up. Christine got straight to the point. "Do you know where Mr. Y's office is?"

For a split second Mme Giry looked nervous, but it possibly could only have been Christine's imagination. "Why, my dear, would you want to go there?" she inquired, taking a sip of her own tea.

"It's...personal."

"I see. Does it perhaps have to do with the disappearance of your son?" she pressed softly. Christine nodded, sighing.

"Madame Giry, I've already spoken with him once, and I know Gustave is with him. He...he gave me an ultimatum a few days previous, and I suppose I didn't truly believe he would go _through_ with what he said-"

Midway through Madame Giry let out a gasp. "He _didn't!"_ she hissed. Christine flinched, never recalling seeing the ballet instructor getting so angered before. Meg looked equally startled, glancing nervously from her mother to friend.

The older woman's hands clenched into fists as she stood. "Don't worry, Christine. We'll get your son back as soon as possible, and I can guarantee that Erik will very well pay for his actions."

Christine tilted her head. "Erik? Is that his name?"

She was slightly embarrassed that despite knowing him her entire life, Erik had never actually _told_ her what his real name was.

Now that she thought about it, she had really only known Erik for around a year as a man, other than her Angel of Music.

Madame Giry nodded. "Indeed, child. Hadn't he ever told you?"

Slightly embarrassed, Christine shook her head. "No, I always called him my Angel of Music, even after I learned her was a real person. I mean, I suspected for a long time but I never really had time to-you know, _ask_ him."

"Of course," the older woman patted her hand. "You were rather preoccupied, I suppose."

"Yes, I was, but Madame, we are straying away from the topic at hand. You know where he...Erik lives, right? I really need to find him, and he never gave me his address."

The former ballet instructor flexed her hands. "Where did you meet with him before? His office at the theater?" Christine nodded.

Exhaling, Mme Giry beckoned for Meg to fetch some paper and a pen, before writing down an address quickly on the small sheet. She handed it to the young woman, her hand clasped over hers. "Take care, child. He is unpredictable."

Christine gave her a small smile. "I know, Madame. Thank you very, _very_ much."

Finishing off the remainder of her tea, Christine bid the two women goodbye, making her way back out into the street. The slip of paper was clutched firmly in her hand, glancing down at it every so often as if she half-expected it to disappear. She would be lying through her teeth if she said she weren't afraid. Christine was terrified by the prospect of confronting Erik and demanding her child back (a small part of her wanted to correct to _their_ child,) but it had to be done.

She swallowed up her apprehension. Gustave was more important than her own, silly feelings. She had learned that lesson long ago. Pressing a hand to her brow, the young woman exhaled slowly, before glancing down at the address. She knew where it was.

She knew where _he_ was.

And this time, she would _not_ let him run, not without a fight.

* * *

 **No Meg and Mme Giry butchering in this fanfic. I'm writing them as they deserved, unlike the twisted mess they became in LND.**


	5. Dead End Road

**_My apologies for the long wait. This chapter is a bit on the short side, unfortunately. Enjoy!_**

* * *

" _Christine?"_

Christine was staring at her hands, currently clenched into fists around the small piece of paper. The original sheet had been ripped into small pieces after departing from Mme Giry's, around an hour previously. Now, all that was left was a small scrap with the name of Erik's residence. The smaller the paper was, the easier it would be to hide it from Raoul.

Whom of which, was now repeating her name in an agitated tone.

"CHRISTINE!" he yelled, making her jump as she swiveled around to face him. Her husband was sitting on the chaise, sitting upright with his elbows resting on his knees. His blue eyes bore intently into hers, brow furrowed. "Are you okay? You've been staring at your lap for the past thirty minutes."

Her nose wrinkled, and her retort came out before she was able to stop herself. "No, Raoul, I am most decidedly _not_ okay. Our son is missing, and we don't know where he is, whether or not he's safe," of course, she knew where Gustave was, but it would be difficult to simply disclose that select bit of information to Raoul. Christine couldn't just straight up tell her husband; 'our son is with his _actual_ father, who is, in addition, your old rival who nearly killed you and forced me to marry him ten years ago. Cheers!'

"On top of that," she said instead, "I'm helpless and cannot do anything in the meantime. Is that answer enough for you?"

Immediately, though, she felt guilty. Gustave was gone, and arguing with Raoul wouldn't do anything to help. They needed to help each other as much as possible, even if she felt a tad bit reluctant to team up with him.

Raoul must have sensed something of the sort, shifting over to where she sat and pulling her into a tight hug. She sat stiffly in his embrace for a moment, before relaxing. "I'm sorry," he murmured into her hair as she wrapped her own arms around his neck, closing her eyes. "That was terribly insensitive of me- I know how much you miss him. We'll find him, y'know?"

Christine didn't reply for a few moments, exhaling. Life, specifically hers, was tumultuous, and she enjoyed taking a moment to simply revel in the simple human contact. While she was still angry over his seeming lack of care what happened to their son, it was important to keep a clear head in all of this.

"I know," she murmured. "Everything has just been...so _wild_ lately. First with arriving in America in the first place, and then Gustave's disappearance. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have yelled at you." Raoul hummed in a manner that made her assume that he agreed with her former statement. She couldn't really tell, not with his voice being partially muffled.

"I'll tell you what," he pulled back a little bit, and she momentarily missed the warmth his body had provided. "How about we set out on our own and conduct a small search for him? To ease your mind."

Despite the fact she had been out and about for nearly the entire morning only an hour previously, she found herself nodding to his request. "Alright," she said. "I suppose we could give it a try." The corner of her lip twitched in the ghost of a smile.

"That's the spirit!" he replied. "And who knows, we might even find him."

Her smile disappeared, yet he was left none the wiser as they headed out a little later.

It was most definitely warmer out now, later in the day. The sun was out, yet clouds were also visible, hinting at a possible storm in the evening. The wind was soft, lightly tussling her hair as she strode along at a brisk pace, a little bit ahead of Raoul. It was muggy, as well. A few extra wisps of her curls stuck to her neck, but she was too determined in her task to rub them away. "Christine," he huffed, out of breath. "Could you possibly slow down?"

She paused, sighing. Christine wanted nothing more than to send Raoul back home and get Gustave for herself, but she supposed that her voyage could wait at least until the night when no one could see.

 _Yes,_ she thought as she waited for Raoul to catch up. _That's precisely what I'll do._

Once it was dark, around midnight, she would get ready and find Gustave herself. She could claim that she found him wandering, lost and alone in some dark part of New York. ' _Mother's intuition,'_ she would say. Considering they had kept his disappearance on the down-low, it wouldn't be terribly difficult.

Christine was shaken from her thoughts by Raoul's hand clasping around hers. His blue eyes looked at her with earnest. "What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing," she shook her head. "Just about Gustave. You know that."

They kept on walking, her hand clasped around his own reluctantly.

XXxxXX

Nadir rubbed his face, sighing. He still felt a tad bit taken aback by his first encounter with Erik. Gustave was missing from his mother's side, most likely forcefully, from the look of it. The Persian was rounding the corner when he spotted two figures striding forward, a man and a woman. Instantly recognizing them as the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Chagny, he took a few rapid steps in the opposite direction.

After making sure either had not spotted him, he glanced back at the couple. Christine seemed restless, glancing side to side in a skittish manner. Raoul, on the other hand, looked rather comfortable with his elbow squared with hers. Chin tilted upwards, eyes glinting a soft aquamarine in the sunlight, he looked at ease. _Odd,_ Nadir thought, _for a man whose son was missing._

He frowned. That wasn't entirely true. The moment the Persian had sat down across from Gustave and Erik the day before, he had nearly well been knocked off his feet (or seat) with the realization. It was painfully clear that Erik was the true father of Gustave, from the young boy's eyes to the way he leaned back in his chair, to the way he spoke or laughed…

The biggest question was, did Erik know? His masked friend, since the term was used loosely, hadn't given any hint as to whether or not he was aware, but there was a lot to the man than what lay on the surface. Erik was a complicated puzzle, one that Nadir had spent the past few decades struggling to solve, to no avail.

He tidied his hat, blinking away his thoughts to spot the pair again. Much to his disdain, the two had moved on down the street, lost from his view. Nadir sighed, shaking his head. Nadir had half a mind to make his way back to Erik's home, grab the boy and return him to his mother. Getting inside his flat wouldn't be the biggest issue, though. Erik had mailed him a key to his home a month or so after settling himself down in his current residence, under the pretense of 'just in case.'

'Just in case' could have been interpreted in a thousand ways. 'Just in case' he got hurt? 'Just in case' he did something irreversible and needed a stable head to think for him, and clean up his mess? The moment that Nadir had heard the infamous Mr. Y from Coney Island had invited Christine to America, he had grasped ahold of the key, going with the latter. However, Nadir had a better chance of getting struck by lightning than getting out of his flat alive with the boy. Erik, he knew, would sooner kill him then let him take Gustave.

"Until this entire dilemma is fixed," he grimaced beneath his breath, "I will simply have to stick around."

* * *

 **What did you think of Christine's plotting? Her character is unusually difficult for me to write.**

 **Nadir's explanation and plans?**

 **Tell me your thoughts! Reviews boost my motivation.**


	6. Indigo Home

**_Yay! Long chapter! Happy early gift the for the holidays. The chapter names, by the way, are all song titles. This one is mentioned at the end of the chapter, and has a few lines featured._**

* * *

Only a few hours before Christine and Raoul had departed for their walk, Erik stared blankly at the sheet of paper before him. The pen clenched in his hand tapped uselessly against the parchment as he struggled to think of something, _anything_. It had been a long time since he had had such a bad case of writer's block, (or in this case, _songwriter's_ block.) Ten years, if he were to be exact. Immediately after arrival in America, he had been unable to think up even a simple hymn, with every note reminding him of Christine. For a few months following the entire ordeal beneath the Opera house, any sound that had a semblance to a song was agony. He shook his head. Erik needed to work on his music, and his music alone for the time being.

Before sitting down at the dark, mahogany desk a little over five hours ago, he had only thought up a few lines. It was, after all, the only things he could come up with. Closing his eyes, he hummed a few chords to himself, tapping along on the desk as he did so.

 _No,_ he thought, frustrated. His brows furrowed in frustration. No matter what he did, he couldn't make the notes, which sounded perfect in his head, translate onto the paper in the manner he wished. It wasn't as if the song were difficult-not at all. It was rather a simple tune, a few chords repeated, but it was the lyrics that, to him, held the bulk of the magic.

The magic, that he currently found lacking in his abilities.

Again, he murmured the words to himself. It was a slow song, not at all the norm in Coney.

" _Dry eyes, roaring falls, I know I've traveled far,_

 _So far, but this is where it ends._

 _Found you, right about the time that you found me,_

 _For once I was doing something right,"_

Yet he couldn't envision what would follow after the last line. As far as he was concerned, he had never had done a right thing in his life. His birth, even it seemed, was a scourge upon humanity itself. Even now, he had abducted the son of the very woman he had ever loved sleeping next door. Christine was undoubtedly worried sick about him, as he had thought repeatedly the longer he kept Gustave with him.

He knew the young boy was depressed, as well. Ever since their little episode, he had been quiet and withdrawn, preferring to remain beside Erik. The masked man liked to imagine that they both bonded over the fact that they both missed Christine terribly, although all their misery rested solely on Erik's shoulders.

 _Great,_ he thought. _Another thing to add to my list of 'things I have managed to mess up in my life.'_

And it was a very, _very_ long list, at least in his mind.

Dropping the pen and resting his head in his hands, he swore to himself. It was only a simple vaudeville song, it didn't have to mirror his life, or _anyone's,_ for that matter. He didn't have to put much work into it, just jot down a few rhyming words about love and fluff and call it a day. It wasn't even supposed to be as difficult as writing Don Juan had been-at least that he now knew the feeling of love.

 _Yet,_ he sighed, _I have an awful way of showing it._

Leaning back in the chair, he glanced around his office. Gustave was (thankfully) asleep in the other room, as he had retired a little time ago and would most likely sleep in. Erik had learned over the past few days that the young boy was also rather nocturnal in nature, preferring to stay up to hours late in the night that seemed obscene for his age.

 _Well, look who's talking,_ he scoffed to himself, standing as to pace the room, silent as to not wake Gustave. As a child, Erik had also rarely, if ever, slept. Whether it be a blessing or a curse, insomnia always appeared to hound him, even from a very, very young age. Staying up late and burying himself in writing had always been usual, at least for him. He refused to use the word 'normal.'

 _He_ was anything but.

Continuing moving restlessly about the room, Erik began to feel the flood of guilt that he had begun to familiarize himself with over nearly half a week or the span of time he had been with Gustave. Every time he was not busying himself with a task of some sort, his thoughts began to trail back to Christine.

Every moment apart from Gustave must be a living hell for her, and it was all his fault.

She loved the child with all of her heart, and although she most likely knew that her son was with him (Christine was no fool, so this was a safe assumption) Christine most likely thought Gustave's safety was on the line. Where was she now? Was she searching for him with the local police? Undoubtedly she was, but Erik highly doubted that they'd get anywhere. The police were incompetent and childish, and she would gain no ground at their side. That knowledge should have comforted him or at least made him scoff...but it didn't. It just made him feel worse.

" _Stop it!_ " he hissed, balling his hands up to his temples, shaking his head. His wig and mask were set aside on the desk. "Stop thinking and pitying her!" He had no right!

But neither did he have a right to abduct a _child_ , either.

Sometimes he wondered if Christine had been right, over a decade ago, back by his house in the underground lake. Maybe his soul _was_ where the true distortion lay.

Later that day he set out, cutting through shortcuts around the main and currently buzzing with activity roadways, refusing to venture into the streets. It was brighter out, and he had taken the time to leave a note explaining to Gustave that he would be back soon. Erik didn't really know himself why he had gone, but one thing was certain. He needed fresh air, a change of scenery. So, that was precisely what he was going to get.

The path down to the pier was a long one from his home, eventually weaving away from the larger and more abundantly populated parts of Coney. Waves lapped against the sand as he neared, the sound barely audible from his distance away.

The normal beaches were typically crowded, even at the current later time in the year, so he was grateful to have found the smaller, more reclusive section far away from the other parts of the amusement park. No other way would he have been able to find a little bit of peace, had he been constantly surrounded by people. Many nights had been spent on the lone wooden boardwalk that extended from the path and into the water, his shoe and sockless feet dangling over the edge, his head tilted up to stare into the stars, ignoring his reflection in the water.

Now, he deliberately looked at himself in the waves, his image distorted and constantly moving inside the water. The sun, bouncing off from above, nearly blinded him.

His dark shoes clicked against the wooden planks, the wind whipping his hair and waving his cloak in the wind. He came to a standstill at the very end, taking a few breaths. Erik reached up, taking off his mask slowly. The white porcelain was warm beneath his hand, slightly sweaty from his walk. And then, carefully, for the first time in what seemed like years, he turned his yellow gaze towards the ocean. Towards his naked face, his reflection.

 _A monster meets my gaze,_ he thought, plainly, no reaction appearing on his gruesome visage. Everything was as he had remembered; the sunken eye, his nose that was flattened at an unnatural level, the dark blue veins that were imprinted beneath his nearly paper-thin flesh.

Still, he refused to allow himself to look away. "I _am_ a monster," he hissed to himself. "I deserve this, this is my punishment."

His deformed lips curled into a sneer, his brows furrowing together as he glowered for a minute longer, before turning away. Shakily, with less vigor than before, he replaced the white mask upon his face. He left in silence, the bottoms of his shoes branding the sand below, seemingly, the only proof he had even been there in the first place.

Back in his flat, Erik took off his now soil-encrusted shoes, leaving them sitting beside the doorstep. With a huff, he plopped down on the nearby settee, the springs squeaking underneath his weight. Rubbing the unmasked part of his face with a hand, he exhaled softly.

"Erik?" a quiet voice echoed from behind him. Erik turned, seeing Gustave standing in the hallway. The young boy was rubbing his eyes, appearing quite tired, as though he had just recently awoken. With a pang of guilt, Erik wondered if his arrival had caused the child to stir.

"Did you see my note?" the masked man asked, gesturing to the couch across from him. Gustave shook his head, shuffling over and sitting down. "I overslept, I think. I just got up," he explained.

"Most likely due to your affinity for staying up until you can hear the nightingale, isn't it?" The corner of his mouth turned up.

Gustave let out a giggle. "No! There are not even nightingales _in_ America!"

"Rather unfortunate, isn't it? I always appreciated their song. It's a shame there are none up here, in Coney Island."

Gustave tilted his head. "Wait, Erik, have you been to France before? You can speak French, so you must have."

Erik nodded. "Indeed I have. I was originally born in France." he kept things intentionally vague, not wishing to delve into his past at the moment.

"Really?" Gustave leaned forward. "How come you never spoke of it before? What part of France were you born in?"

The older man waved him away with a hand. "I'd rather not talk about my past, little Vicomte. Instead, how about a little bit of music to wake us up?" he stood, striding over to the grand piano and lifting the lid. He let his fingers drift across a few of the keys, glancing over at Gustave, who remained stationary at his seat.

"Actually, uh, Erik, I was hoping to ask you one more thing," the boy replied. Erik stiffened, his eyes narrowing instinctively.

Taking this as approval to continue, Gustave grew a little bolder. "Yesterday- before you ran out," Erik cringed inwardly at that, "you said something about Papa, about how you _let him go_ , just like Mother."

A short pause, and then, even quieter,

"Are you the Phantom?"

Erik slowly sat down on the piano bench, turning his face away from the young boy. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. He had been bound to find out, with all the slip-ups he'd been making recently. Trying to regain his composure, he took a few shaking breaths, before lifting his head to watch Gustave. "Maybe," he swallowed, "Maybe we should just play some music, for now. This is a pretty heavy topic for early noon."

Reluctantly, the young boy took his spot beside the older man, growing uncharacteristically silent. Gustave, having realized he was most likely correct, and Erik, being unwilling to answer such a question.

It was a very discomforting quiet that filled the air in the space before Erik's finger began to dance across the piano in the soft tune that slowly merged into Ave Maria. Requiring no music sheets, he simply poured his heart into the music, his eyes closing.

Eventually, his fingers fell away and Erik was left staring at the piano, an agonized expression on his face. Gustave played out a few notes in his place, humming along with the tune. The small boy tapped out the same melody a few times, before trying it in a few different keys. After a moment, he turned to Erik. "Do you have any empty music sheets?" he asked, almost as if he were embarrassed. "I hope you don't mind if I compose a bit, my Mama always said that I was quite good at it, and I like to practice."

"Not at all," Erik reassured, getting up to go to a brown shelf leaned up against the wall, reaching in and grasping a binder, flipping it open and removing a few pieces of plain music sheets. He handed them, and a quill, to Gustave. The boy grinned immediately upon seeing them, thanking the masked man quickly before turning back to his work.

Erik remained standing, his gloved hands limp at his side. To say Gustave was amazing was a gross understatement.

The boy was awe-inspiring in his composing skills, sounding as if he were an old master with years and years of practice up his sleeve. _Certainly_ not a ten-year-old boy.

And yet, as Erik continued spectating the child, he was once again reminded of another young child, sitting at an old piano, quill and paper in hand, creating wondrous music thought impossible for his age.

The only difference, as it occurred to Erik, was that the other child, all those years ago, had worn a mask upon his face.

"Oh, _God_ ," he whispered. Staggering against the bookshelf full of musical scores, he inhaled sharply. The wood creaked beneath his hands as he reached out to steady himself. It felt as if a strike of fire had torn through his heart. With one hand propped up against the bookshelf and another fisted over his heart, the masked man watched Gustave with wide eyes.

 _Was Gustave…_

 _Was Gustave his_ son?

The similarities, ones that he had previously not seen, all came flooding back. His awesome skill in composing, nocturnal nature, almost angelic singing voice. Of course, the voice could easily be from Christine, but the rest? Christine had never harbored any skill in creating music as far as he knew, and as a child, she had always been out cold by at least nine o'clock. She had never been very good at staying up late.

Erik couldn't speak for Raoul, but the _fop,_ as he worded it nicely, most likely had no skills in music. And, if he recalled the long-ago night, precisely ten years ago, the dates matched up.

"G-Gustave," he called, his voice shaking and a tad bit hoarse. "When is your birthday?"

The young boy looked up from his seat, his blue eyes tentatively meeting Erik's. He tilted his head, a confused expression on his brow. "January 5th...why?"

The masked man ignored the statement. "And the year? Eighteen eighty-three, by any chance?"

Gustave looked even more puzzled, nodding. Erik blanched.

" _Merde._ " The dates lined up.

"Gustave," he gasped, turning away. "I'll be back soon."

Grabbing his shoes and putting them on in two swift motions, he stood up and left promptly, swinging the door shut behind him. Gustave gulped, racing forward to tug on the knob as soon as it closed. This time, it was locked.

Finding himself alone, and this time locked in, the boy found nothing better to do except go back to his work, feeling very perplexed and worried the entire time.

XXxxXX

Relocating the Persian's dingy little hotel room outside Coney wasn't all too difficult, it was the trek there that took the better half of the hour. Midway through it began to rain, little droplets of water pattering onto the pavement, soaking his cloak, wig and virtually any article of clothing on his person. Still, he refused to head back, his hands (his gloves were tossed long ago) fisted into the drenched material of his obsidian shaded cloak, dark and a sore thumb against the rapidly darkening background.

He came to a stop at his destination, looking up at the tall building. Forsaking the entrance, he turned, and with a flourish of his half-limp cape, he grabbed one of the window ledges and hauled himself up, counting until he reached precisely the third floor. The window was unlocked. All the easier for Erik.

He slipped inside, stepping silently and managing not to make a single noise, despite his water-ridden shoes. As soon as he reached the parlor, however, all previous stealth was forgotten, and he fell back upon the settee. Moaning, he drew his hands up to cover his face. In some morbid way, it was funny that he found himself in the exact spot as yesterday.

Humming a tune softly, Nadir entered the living room with a teacup and book in his hands. Had Erik been in better shape, he would have lectured the Persian for being terribly off-key (he was) but instead, he simply cracked open an eye.

Glancing up, Nadir let out a gasp, dropping his book and nearly spilling his tea all over his white shirt. "Erik!" he hissed. "What in the name of all that is holy are you _doing_ here?!" The other man took a few steps forward to carefully place his cup on a coaster, glaring at his masked friend all the while. He picked up his book.

Erik exhaled, removing his hands and propping himself up on his elbows. He looked absolutely dreadful. His wig was tousled and messy, mask smeared with dirt and rainwater. His eyes were golden slits, staring down at the white carpet. The floor beneath his feet was stained, as well.

"Cripes, Erik…" he murmured. "You look terrible."

All he got in return was a slight _harrumph,_ but he managed to at least look up to meet the Persian man's gaze.

"So, want to disclose why you are once again in my room, looking-" he paused, "Nevermind. Care to explain? Does it have anything to do with the boy, again?"

Erik's closed his eyes. "Yes."

"Ah… and what did you do this time?"

"I," a deep breath followed. "I came to my senses, I suppose. Gustave is my son."

Nadir took a sip of his tea, brow furrowing. "It took you a while."

" _What?"_ Erik's head jerked up, the unmasked part of his face turning red with fury. Within moments he had lunged forward, his hands wrapped around the other man's neck.

" _You knew? And you didn't_ tell _me?_ " his grip tightened, and Nadir began gasping for air, before finally drawing enough strength to turn and toss him off. As the masked man stumbled and leaned against the couch, Nadir jerked up and began rubbing his throat, muttering a string of vulgarities beneath his breath as he massaged his rapidly bruising neck.

After a tense moment of silence between the men, Erik looked up at the Persian. "I-I'm sorry, Nadir. I shouldn't have." he took a deep breath. And another. And another. "First I intrude without your consent, and then I nearly kill you. No wonder I'm… Look, I apologize. I grossly overstepped my boundaries. But still- why didn't you tell me?" his voice cracked on the last line, the former Phantom's eyes widening with an unreadable emotion.

There was a second pause as Nadir tested his ability to speak. After finding himself capable, he replied in a low voice. "Indeed you did, Erik. Overstepped your boundaries, I mean." he sighed. " _Merde._ Aren't you supposed to be all-knowing? I thought you _knew."_

"Knew?" Erik ignored the 'all-knowing' statement, clenching and unclenching his hands.

"That he was your son."

"Ah. I'm afraid you were terribly incorrect."

The Persian grabbed his overturned teacup, cringing as he examined the dark spot of liquid on the former snow-white carpeting. "If I had realized that you remained unaware of his true parentage, I would have told you. I swear it."

Erik's Adam's apple bobbed as he took that in, reaching forward to pick up the coaster and small plate, handing them wordlessly to the other man. He set all the now-sticky porcelain on the end table, moving himself up onto the couch behind him. Erik mirrored his actions, remaining quiet all the while. He seemed almost afraid to speak. The topic at hand seemed too serious and drastic, that neither really knew how to respond.

Nadir was the first to come up with something to say. "May I inquire as to how you realized?"

Erik wrinkled his nose but abided with his request. "Gustave asked for blank music sheets, and as I watched him compose, it all came to me. He is… he is so much like me, that it's almost frightening at times." The masked man paused, and his voice grew uncharacteristically soft. "That was when I figured it out."

Nadir gave him a sad smile. "And now? What are you going to do with this newfound information? It will be difficult to turn things back the way it was before. You're still his captor, in a sense."

Erik blinked, flexing his hands. "I'm well aware, Daroga. To simply put it, I say it's fair time to let him go."

* * *

 **My apologies on the cliffhanger, but it was the best place to cut off the chapter.**

 **The song _Indigo Home_ by Roo Panes does not belong to me, unfortunately. Glorious song, while I'm unsure if Erik would agree with me.**


	7. Totenklage

**I renamed this fanfiction from Love Never Lies to Culpabilité, as is obvious from the title above. It's a much more fitting name. I would also check back and reread the first chapter, which I have recently rewritten.**

 ** _F_** ** _inally,_** **a follow up to where we left off last time! Now to see what happens next...**

* * *

Gustave did not notice Erik's presence at first. Instead, he was at the grand piano, plunking out a few notes. Erik could not have been gone longer than an hour, yet already he felt terrible over leaving the young boy alone- again. Christine would never have abandoned Gustave at the drop of a dime, like he had done.

It was just another reason why Erik was incredibly unfit to care for his, no, the child. Gustave belonged with his mother, not being roommates with some reclusive, mentally-unstable madman who struggled to even write a simple _song._

But that didn't mean he couldn't relish the final moments alone with him. If things went the way Erik planned… Gustave would most likely never see him again. That reason was the entire reason he now stood, leaned against the wall, watching Gustave play the instrument. The boy, just like his father, truly was talented. Gustave poured his heart and soul into his music, occasionally pausing to write something on the paper.

After a moment the boy noticed Erik spectating behind him, turning around and grinning up at the masked man. "Erik!" he gasped. "You're back! I wanted to show you what I made."

"Of course," Erik managed a small smile, kneeling beside his son. The title still made his heart skip a beat. Or two. Or three.

He _was_ a father, technically. Yet, that thought brought him to another fact. All those years ago, when he had left Christine in the early dawn… _she had been pregnant._ Erik struggled to keep looking calm as he listened to Gustave present his newly-written score. If he had known that she had conceived back then, he never would have left. However cold Erik's heart was, he still cared deeply about Christine. He may be a terrible person, but by God, he had _never_ wanted her to have to go through that, all alone.

He had abandoned her thinking she would be better with Raoul, who was wealthy and would be able to better care for her, as opposed to him, who had been in shambles at the time. Now, Erik could only imagine Christine's terror at waking to find him missing. She had told him before that she had been prepared to stay alongside him forever and that she had loved him... another thing he tried to forget. Then a few weeks later after being abandoned, finding out she was with child. _His_ child.

 _No, she probably believed the child to be the Vicomte's,_ he thought bitterly, feeling more than a little ill at the idea of Christine and Raoul performing in intimate acts together. The boy's tiny, grubby hands all over Christine's smooth, creamy skin… he gulped.

Yet, knowing Christine, she most likely figured out the true parentage of her son as soon as he was walking and talking. Hell, Gustave even _looked_ like him. Sharing his raven black hair as well as natural skinniness, the child was incredibly fortunate not to have inherited Erik's amber eyes. Raoul would have turned them both out immediately, in Erik's mind.

Shoving away his thoughts, he focused on listening to the end of Gustave's song. He felt a blossom of pride in his chest. _Gustave,_ he thought to himself, with a little sorrow, _was a true prodigy._

"What did you think?" the young boy turned his blue eyes up to Erik, wide and anxious for praise. Praise, that Erik was more than willing to give. "I think," he began, placing his hands upon Gustave's shoulders. "That you are beyond amazing. You will achieve great things, Gustave."

The child grinned in response. "Thanks."

A pause, and then Erik spoke again, hesitant.

"Gustave… may I hug you?" his voice was small, almost afraid. But to his relief (and admittedly, surprise,) Gustave nodded. It took Erik all his strength not to cry, pulling Gustave against his chest, yet still being careful enough not to squish him.

If Erik was never going to see his son again, he would be damned if he wouldn't be permitted to know the feeling of holding his child in his arms.

Slightly muffled by Erik's still-damp cloak, Gustave spoke. "I wrote that song for you, you know. It's a gift."

That was all it took to undo Erik. Clenching his eyes shut in a fruitless attempt to stop the flood of tears threatening to break through. Silently, he began to weep.

XXxxXX

Although only a few days had passed in Erik's care, to Gustave it felt like a lifetime since he had last been with his mother. The young boy was ecstatic when he learned he was going to be reunited with her again, a fact that only strengthened Erik's guilt.

"She's ready to let me watch her?" his eyes had widened. Erik nodded, tentatively.

"She told me she missed you terribly, and that she wanted to show you her song. She's been practicing very hard, I heard."

While the part about her missing him had been completely correct, the masked man knew for a fact that Christine hadn't practiced at all since he had abducted Gustave. Erik couldn't blame her.

Gustave had then shocked Erik by flinging his arms around his waist, pulling the older man in for another hug—his second from Gustave.

Now, however, the two of them were standing on the balcony in the hotel room that the de Chagny's were staying in. Erik was picking at the lock on the doors, his eyes narrowed in concentration. The small and temporary home, he noticed immediately, was not entirely empty. He could recognize the footsteps of Christine from inside her bedroom.

With a click, the doors were unlocked and Erik ushered Gustave inside. The parlor was dimly lit, only a fire set in the fireplace for illumination. The boy, Erik knew, was absolutely bubbling with excitement, staring at the shut door as a wide grin spread upon his face. He glanced up at the masked man. " _She's in there!"_ he whispered. Erik's only response was putting a finger up to his lips, before striding forward on silent feet to open the door as quietly as possible.

Christine was standing before her vanity, running a comb (rather aggressively) through her hair. To Erik, she looked like the lost little girl he had sung to over a decade ago, simply trying to find her way through the world. With her hair down and unruly, she looked young and innocent. Her brows were knit together as she stared at herself.

That was, at least until she caught sight of him in the mirror. Gasping audibly, she swung around to glare at him. "You!" she growled. Her pretty features were twisted in a scowl as she stumbled to her feet. Raoul was nowhere to be seen, fortunately.

Erik narrowed his eyes. Gustave was still hidden behind him, but he could feel the small boy quivering as he clutched to his cloak. The child watched his mother's outburst with wide eyes.

"Indeed," he murmured, dryly.

"Have you come here to take something else from me? Because I can assure you, monsieur, I have nothing else to lose." She took another step forward, but Erik didn't back down.

Instead, he shook his head, moving aside to give her a full view of Gustave. Letting out a gasp, Gustave ran forwards, into her arms. Both were crying within moments. "My dear," she cupped his cheeks with her hands. "Are you alright?"

Gustave nodded shakily, reaching to hug his mother again.

Shutting his eyes momentarily to muster strength, Erik took a step forward. He felt out of place, as if he were watching something he wasn't supposed to be seeing. Christine looked up, standing again soon after, her head barely coming up to his chin. Her dark gaze bore into his with heartbreaking intensity.

"Why," her voice quivered, and her face was red with tear streaks. "Why have you returned? What do you expect? Money? Because that's the only reason we came in the first place. We're _broke._ "

"I expect nothing, Christine. I came to my senses, that is all." he murmured, moving nearer until he was close enough to feel her breath as she exhaled. "I just hope that someday, in time you will come to forgive me. Words only seem to do injustice, do they not?" Glancing down at Gustave, the corner of his lip twitched, ever-so-slightly. "Goodbye, Gustave."

And with a flash of his hand and a swirl of his cloak he was gone, leaving a very confused Christine as well as a forlorn Gustave.

"I'm not going to see him again, am I?" he whimpered, clutching to Christine's skirts. She didn't respond, embracing him tightly and turning back to her dresser, where she had placed the slip of paper with Erik's address on it.

The note was gone.

XXxxXX

The flat was cold and unwelcoming without Gustave's warm presence. No matter where he glanced, every item reminded him of all he had lost. The couch in the parlor, a crack on the ceiling, the lone window on the far side of the room, even the _pianoforte,_ covered with all the boy's papers. Gustave's gift, the small piece he had created only a few hours earlier lay on the top of the stack, an insulting reminder of what he had lost. He took a few shaky steps in its direction, hand outstretched to grab the paper. The moment his fingers touched it, however, he jerked back as if he had been burned.

If what he had done was right, why did he feel so terrible? Erik turned his back on the piano, instead of making his way to the kitchen, opening a cabinet and taking out the strongest thing he could find. With trembling hands, he grabbed a cup, filling it to the rim with the liquor. In a few moments he had the harsh liquid downed, then promptly refilled his mug and following suit. Even the expensive alcohol slid down his throat tastelessly as Erik attempted to numb his mind and ignore the large emptiness that filled his chest. For a short period, he had been content, almost happy with Gustave. When he had forgotten his sins, he had let himself imagine that everything was alright, that _he_ was alright.

Yet, all that goes up must come down, and the same went for his time with Gustave. Abandoning the glass, he tore off his wig and mask, reaching for the bottle. Erik took another swig, clenching his eyes shut. Then, with a painful slowness, he rubbed his face with his hands.

"To a wasted life," he slurred, raising the bottle as if he were leading a toast and throwing it across the room using all his remaining might. Erik simply watched as the empty vessel shattered into pieces against the mantle above the fireplace. A small shower of glass rained down onto the floor.

Once again, he was alone.

* * *

 ** _Please_** **tell me your thoughts, reviews definitely encourage me.**

 **Do you think Erik was right in returning Gustave?**

 **What will Christine do now?**


	8. Resurfacé

**I _really_ meant to update sooner! I'm very sorry. I'm finishing up the next few chapters as fast as I can, especially since I kind of left you all on a cliffhanger last time.**

* * *

Christine's heart was beating so fast, it was a miracle that the entire of New York couldn't hear it. She simply stared in silence, clutching her son, _her_ _son,_ to her chest as tightly as she could. Gustave was hugging her with equal strength.

After a few minutes (though it seemed like hours) of blinking at the door in shock, she looked back down. Her heart swelled with love with for her brave son, finally returned after three very, _very_ long days.

"Gustave," she cooed, kneeling once more. His tears wet the front of her shirt as he looked up. "Why are you crying?"

Her thumb wiped away a few of his tears, but he still sniffled. A deep part of her worried that Erik had done something horrible, wrecking her son emotionally in some way she didn't want to think about. Instead, the boy just shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted. "I-I just _missed_ you so much."

Christine began to weep then, too. She rubbed her hand in soothing circles on his back. "So did I, Gustave." she swallowed. "But you're safe now."

She kept whispering that over and over, as if it were a prayer. She wasn't quite sure whom of the two she was comforting more, Gustave, or herself. Her son was finally in her arms, safe, unharmed, and most importantly, _home._ He was still crying, and a small part of her wondered if Erik really had done something to hurt him. If so, then the former-Phantom better be prepared to fear for his life. She gave her son a few kisses on a cheek to shake away the thoughts.

Although she adored finally being able to hug her son again, small part of her needed answers. Pulling back enough to look into his eyes, she wiped his tears. "Gustave," she murmured. "Can you tell me what happened? What he...did?"

He sniffled a bit, gulping at her intense gaze. "I know you're wondering if he hurt me, but he didn't. Not at all."

Christine breathed an audible sigh of relief as he continued.

"Erik was really nice, and I wasn't really expecting him to let me go home yet. Everything just happened so _fast,_ and he made it sound like I was going to stay for awhile _._ " he paused here, momentarily, as if he had something further to say, but decided otherwise.

"He was so weird. Like how more than once he would get really freaked out and run out of the house."

"Leaving you alone?" she asked, not at all surprised. Erik, it seemed, had a long history of abandoning those around him and disregarding their feelings or ignoring whether or not they wished to stay. Her grip tightened subconsciously on Gustave. Her son was physical proof of that.

Gustave nodded. "It happened twice… I think. We were talking about Paris this one time and all the sudden he got up and began yelling and ran out of there."

At seeing her wide eyes, he placed a small hand on her shoulder. "Not yelling at me, but at Papa. He was mad, _really_ mad."

 _Yelling at Raoul?_ She thought, trying to piece things together. And why on Earth would they be talking about Paris in the first place? Erik had always been so secretive, she was surprised he would even disclose the fact he had ever even lived in France. In all the time she had known him (the term 'known' was used loosely. Did being lied to and being told that someone was an otherworldly being count as _knowing_ them?) On top of that, he had barely ever talked to her about himself. It was always her, her and her voice.

Christine shook her head. God give her mercy, now was _not_ the time to become embittered towards that man once again. Taking her son's hand in hers, she nodded for him to continue.

"He… he knew Papa, I think." A pause. Followed by, "You do, too. I didn't know you knew Erik."

 _Erik told him his name?_ She thought, tilting her head. Christine gave him a small smile. "I do, Gustave. Erik and I used to be… friends."

 _Well, that's a polite way to put it._ Exhaling, she then shook her head. "But I don't really want to talk about that right now. What else happened?"

Her son thought deeply for a moment. "Well, I had fun. Erik is a really good musician, you know. He plays the piano, and has a _really_ good voice. Almost like an angel!" Christine cringed at the comparison, nodding for him to continue.

"Oh!" he remembered suddenly. "And, once this man came in, I think his name was _Nabeer_ or something, and they got into an argument. They were talking about you."

 _Nabeer?_ Christine's brow furrowed. The name didn't sound familiar in the slightest. "They talked about me, you say?"

"Yeah!" Gustave clung to her, giving her another quick hug. "They were really loud. I remember, at one point the other man said that Erik didn't need you."

The young mother simply sighed a little bit, pressing a light kiss to the crown of his head.

"Well, I know Gustave, that _I_ need you. You've been gone for three days, I'd say you need some time to relax after the very big journey you had. How about it's time for bed?"

She was a tad bit reluctant to part herself from him so soon, even just to sleep, yet it was obvious from his yawns and droopy eyes that her son was exhausted.

"But," he countered, rubbing his face with a small hand. "I wanna see Papa. Where is he?"  
 _At the bar,_ she thought miserably, her disposition dimming a bit at the thought, but she shook her head. Now wasn't a time for bitterness, she finally had her _son_ back.

And with that she picked him up into her arms. "Simply out at the moment. You'll see him in the morning, alright? And we'll go out for breakfast at a nice cafe." _And after that we'll visit the authorities and try to persuade to them that everything was a simple understanding. Goddammit, Erik._

Her answer must have satisfied Gustave, for he fell limp in her grip as she carried him into his room, setting him down on his made bed. In his absence she had tidied the room endlessly, telling herself that she had needed it to be nice for when he returned home.

It would seem that she wasn't completely incorrect in doing thus as she removed his shoes and tucked Gustave in, pulling the sheets up to his chin. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she began to exit. She paused at the door, however, and slowly turned towards the far wall.

Christine locked the window before leaving the room. Call it paranoia, but one could never be too careful in her experience.

XXxxXX

Dawn wasn't what awoke Christine first thing in the morning, but instead the insistent knocking upon the front door. She glanced quickly over to Raoul's side of the bed, finding it to be as empty and cold as usual. Christine exhaled slowly. It seemed that as usual, Raoul had never made it home for the night.

Trudging to the door and passing through the parlor, she unlocked the entryway to see her hair-rumpled, messily clothed husband standing before her. His tunic was mussed and stained, and Raoul's eyes were bloodshot. His throat bobbed as he saw her brows knit together.

"You were gone an awfully long time," she said, planting her hands on her hips. The strong smell of liquor came off of him practically in waves. Strong, nauseating waves. She wrinkled her nose. "Don't tell me you spent the _entire_ night drinking!"

Raoul cringed slightly. "I'm sorry," was the only explanation he offered. He shifted uneasily on his feet, his blue eyes glancing down and away from her's. This only seemed to fuel Christine's ire, indignant by his lack of explanation. How dare he show up with nothing to say but 'I'm sorry?'

Inhaling sharply, she rubbed her forehead with a hand. "Raoul, this is getting exhausting. I feel…"

"You feel like what?" He spoke a full sentence this time, stepping past her and into the room. The very same room that Erik had been in only a few hours previously.

She watched as he walked over to the kitchen, opening and closing the cupboards. After a few moments he grabbed a mug, setting it down on the counter along with a tea kettle.

"Raoul," she felt indignant to being ignored. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. I'm trying to talk to you, and I feel like you're not listening to me."  
No, not _feel,_ she _knew_ that he wasn't listening. Stubborn man.

Christine watched as Raoul sighed, turning to face her. "A thousand apologies, Christine," he replied, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Please, continue yelling at me."

"I'm shouting at you with good reason, Raoul!" she began to feel herself tear up in frustration. If he knew what she needed to say, then he wouldn't be acting this way.

He leaned against the counter, raising an eyebrow in question. Taking a few deep breaths, she glanced at her son's bedroom door.

"I found Gustave." the words were quick, and while she was unsure why, she found herself anxious to see his response.

And she got one quickly enough. Raoul seemed to be fully looking at her. "You did? Where? When?" Rushing forward he took both of her hands in his. "Please explain."

"I will, just let me wake up completely first," she stepped out of his grip, her exhaustion suddenly coming back. She _had_ just woken up, to be fair.

Raoul seemed understanding, turning back to the kettle and adding the tea leaves to be strained later on. Christine relaxed upon the couch, rubbing her eyes as she ineffectively attempted to rub the tiredness from her eyes.

Sunlight streamed through the open curtains, glaringly bright.

Raoul settled down across from her once his tea was finished, steaming cup in hand. She propped herself up to face him, smoothing out her skirt as he took a couple sips.

Eventually he spoke. "Where did you find him at?"

Her hands flexed as she felt anxiety bubble up in her chest. She certainly wasn't about to tell him that she had found Gustave with Erik. The last thing she needed was Raoul racing off to the police. So thus she was forced to lie. Thinking quickly, she simply spoke the first idea that came to mind.

"I..I went out searching last night, when you were gone. While looking, I went up to one of the lesser known beaches, just in case."

While she _had_ gone to one of the beaches just in case, she certainly had not found Gustave there.

"At a beach?" Her husband looked a little startled. "But… Gustave can't swim! Was he okay?"

"Gustave was fine," she reassured. "I found him huddle up on a bench. We talked a bit, and it turns out he was simply lost."

She held her breath as Raoul looked thoughtful, setting his tea cup down. Would he see right through her deceit?

"Can I see him?" Was all he said, much to her relief. At least for this answer she could be truthful. Christine did not like to lie, that much was for sure.

"I'm afraid not, he's very tired. I thought it best he spent the day in bed, resting."

Raoul nodded, seemingly satisfied as he stood, stretching. Suddenly, as if remembering his hangover from the amount of liquor he had ingested the night previously, he lifted a hand to his brow. "Oh, God," he muttered. "I have the _worst_ headache."

And with that he stumbled out, leaving her alone in the room. A few moments later the door closed, and she stood up with an exhale. "Well," she murmured to herself. "That could have gone worse."

More than anything, she was simply relieved that Gustave was home, and out of Erik's grip. She picked up Raoul's empty tea-cup, carrying it to the kitchen, and setting it in the basin to be washed later on.

XXxxXX

A little later, she went into Gustave's room to find him propped up on the reading chair in the corner, large novel in hand. A small part of her was greatly relieved by his appearance, as if she had half expected him to vanish once more.

Instead he glanced up, putting down his book. "Mama!" he grinned broadly.

Returning his smile she took a few steps forward, kneeling beside him. "How long have you been awake?" she inquired.

"Only a little while, I just woke up."

Christine returned his grin, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "That's good," she murmured warmly. "You need your rest."

She then took a deep breath. Christine didn't _like_ lying, let alone letting her son lie, but things were drastic.

"Gustave?" she attempted to steady her voice, to little avail. Gustave tilted his head.

"Can I ask a favor of you? It's very important now, okay?"

"O-okay," his brows furrowed as he tried to imagine what she might ask of him. "It won't hurt, will it?" Usually, the only time she used such a serious tone was when she needed to wash out a cut or scrape on his knee. He didn't like the pain.

"No, no, I promise it won't hurt at all," she smiled a little bit, exhaling. "When Papa asks about what you did while you were away, I need you to tell him that I found you at the beach, alright? Last night. Along with that, you can't mention _anything_ about Erik."

"About Erik?" he looked puzzled. "Why? Is he in danger?"

 _If Raoul finds out, then yes, he will be,_ she thought grimly, and nodded.

After Gustave promised not to say a word, she left, preparing for her and Raoul to calm the small handful of policemen on the case.

XXxxXX

Eventually, hours later, all was done, the weight of guilt on her shoulders weighing down heavily on her conscience. With a tired heart she retreated to her bed, struggling to find sleep. Over and over she could only see the words that she had said, deceitful as well as full of half-truths and falsehoods. Images of Raoul's bewildered face, the stern and slightly-relieved police officers, as well as the stoic appearance of Erik, his eyes softening as he quietly murmured goodbye to her son.

Christine didn't rest very well that night.

* * *

 **What are your thoughts?**

 **Did Christine handle this this well? She's in a rather difficult situation (but not entirely blameless.)**

 **Please tell me what you think.**


	9. Elle Chantait

**I was a bit disappointed by the lack of reviews last chapter. I don't know if it was a slow chapter or what, but after these next few chapters, I think the main plot is going to start to peak through. Just hang in there.**

 **Here's chapter nine!**

* * *

Things were uneventful.

Calm, almost.

Christine spent most of her time with Gustave, reassuring herself that Erik wasn't going to swoop down and at any moment steal her son away again. She knew Gustave noticed her unusual attachment to him, barely trusting herself to leave his side for more than an hour.

A few days later she planned to attend her first rehearsal. Christine had originally been given a month to rehearse, yet being tied up with Gustave's disappearance had left her no time to let alone _think_ about practicing.

"You really gotta go?" Gustave had whined, staring down at the chessboard before them. The two of them had taken to competing in chess games when there was nothing else to do, and she found that Gustave was unsurprisingly good at the game, beating her in almost every round.

"I'm afraid so," she smiled sadly at her son, moving the only rook piece she had left horizontally. "Performing on closing night was the entire reason I signed up for this in the first place, love."

"Can't you just practice at home?" his blue eyes were wide, and she almost said yes. Almost.

"Maybe later on. I need to meet my coworkers, at least. Teamwork is very important in a production like this, Gustave."

And while she wanted nothing more than to stay home and forget the entire aria altogether, they desperately needed the money.

Thus was why she now stood at the foot of the opera house, her hands clutching the red folder with the song she was to be performing anxiously as she looked up at the wide, daunting doors.

 _This is your chance,_ her mind whispered. _You can turn and run away now. Raoul will never know the true reason why for you can simply tell him that you felt too unwell to sing. He'll understand._

She felt a little ill, gulping a bit at the thought. More than anything, she was afraid of running into Erik again. The last thing she wanted was a confrontation on her first day of practice. Was she really such a coward? They desperately needed the money, and Erik had made no sign of retracting his offer. "What other choice do I have?" she said to herself, gulping.

Christine grabbed the handles and swung open the doors.

Immediately she realized that there was no sign of Erik. What had she expected? For him to be waiting right behind the door? She let out a nervous laugh, finding her way through the halls. There were a few other actors and workers chatting to one another, barely noticing the nervous Frenchwoman as she strode past.

She turned a corner. Still no Erik.

Christine soon arrived outside of the auditorium. Dimly, she realized, this was the first time she had ever seen the house and stage, and she suddenly found herself worrying that _this_ was where she would find Erik.

As quietly as she could, she opened the entranceway. The only sound she made was the slight creaking of her feet on the wooden floor. She took a few steps into the aisle, examining the performing hall.

The plush red seats were lined on both sides, looking delightfully comfortable. The middle aisles were covered with matching vermillion-colored carpeting. Overhead was a chandelier even more magnificent than the grand chandelier from the Opera Garnier, bright and luminescent enough to keep the entire room from being enshrouded. Her breath was taken away by the sheer size of the thing.

Christine finally looked upon the stage. A small group of people was gathered in the center, and in the orchestra pit were the musicians, all tuning and practicing on their assortment of instruments. She was filled suddenly with an entirely different kind of apprehension. It had been so long since she last sang-how did she know she was still good enough?

"Ah, Mrs. de Chagny!" an unfamiliar voice called from the crowd. She turned to fully face the man as he jumped down from the stage, skipping the stairs entirely. "How nice of you to make it! Your family is doing better, I presume?"

 _Better?_ She thought, confused, yet nodded automatically.

"Good, good. You have a lot to catch up on! I'm Roscoe Turner, the conductor." he held out a hand, and she shook it, transitioning the folder from one hand to the other. She had nearly forgotten she was holding it.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Turner." she grinned. Blushing slightly as she stumbled over the words 'Pleasure," Christine knew her English was broken and all around terrible. That said, she was still glad she had taken the time to memorize a few words and common phrases.

Mr. Turner was a tall man, though not anywhere as tall as Erik. He wore a clean-cut suit and had slicked-back blonde hair. His hazel eyes were bright with enthusiasm, and she found that she immediately liked him. His cheerful smile and attitude were contagious.

"Well, I'd like to show you around, but I'm afraid I have to work with my orchestra down there," he stepped back, glancing at the musicians still practicing a variety of songs. "Instead, I suppose one of the other members can show you to your dressing room. He turned to the stage, preparing to wave to one of the nearest members when a familiar face popped out from one of the wings up on stage. "Wait!" Meg called, rushing over.

"Can I show her around, instead? Mrs. de Chagny and I know each other."

"I don't see why not," Mr. Turner shrugged. Christine smiled at her friend.

Meg grabbed her hand quickly, leading her up on stage and back through the wings. The talented ballerina was wearing a light pink leotard with matching tights, having seemingly raced over from ballet rehearsals. As soon as they were a good distance away from the others, the extroverted blonde leaned over. "Is Gustave safe?" she whispered, her eyes wide. "I hadn't heard from you since your last visit."

Christine exhaled. "Yes, he's fine. Erik…" she glanced up and away from her friend. "Erik returned him a few nights ago. Out of seemingly nowhere, as well. The only explanation he gave was that 'he came to his senses.'"

Meg looked puzzled. "Do you really think he's telling the truth? What if he simply returned Gustave so you were indebted to him?"

She looked down at her clasped hands.

"I don't think that's why."

The two women turned down to a hallway full of dressing rooms, yet Meg led her to the final one, turning the door and leading her in.

Christine's breath hitched as her eyes rested on the tall, wall-length mirror resting in the back. She must have faltered in her steps, for Meg gave her a curious look. Christine forced herself to step further into the room, walking straight up to her reflection. Although the only eyes she could see were her own dark brown, she could easily visualize a different pair, bright and amber, glistening with emotions far deeper than she had ever imagined.

"If not that, do you think he… Erik simply thought it was the right thing to do?" Meg's voice broke through her thoughts.

"What?" Christine moved away from the mirror, facing the ballerina instead.

"Returning Gustave. What if Erik simply realized it was the right thing to do?"

"Oh. Maybe," she murmured, looking down at the folder, opening it enough to catch a glimpse of the title. _Love Never Dies._

She paled.

Meg shrugged, turning towards the door. "Well, I guess it's not important. After this whole thing you can head back home and never see him again." she glanced up at the clock on one of the walls. "Cripes! I'm gonna be late. Good luck practicing, Christine." Her friend closed the door.

Yet Christine's mind was far away from Meg's departure, instead thinking back to the night with Erik and Gustave.

 _Never see him again,_ Meg had said.

For the life of her, Christine could not understand why that thought filled her with apprehension.

XXxxXX

It was much later when she finally felt as if she had a good handle on the song. Her voice was indeed nowhere near perfection, just as she had worried, but it wasn't abysmal.

At least, to _her,_ it wasn't terrible.

Christine let out a sigh of exhaustion, collapsing on the nearby couch. Briefly, she was reminded of her old lessons back at the Opera Garnier, but she shoved the thought away as quickly as it came. There was very little similar in her arrangements, she told herself.

The dressing room truly was beautiful, if not a little eerie. The walls were a soft shade of red, and the plush white carpet underfoot looked as if she could comfortably sleep upon it. There was a large dressing screen in the corner, a desk (with a small mirror attached) as well as the sette she now lay on. _He_ truly had thought of everything to make her new dressing room home-y, as so it seemed. She tried not to look at the mirror.

Christine departed around an hour later. The air was crisp with the impending fall, and a few early leaves crunched beneath her heel. She had chosen to walk back to her hotel room since it was rather nice out.

When she stepped into the living room, Gustave was plopped in the middle of the couch, nibbling on a biscuit. He perked up when she entered. "Mama!"

Christine smiled as he leapt off the seat, racing forward and wrapping his arms around her waist. She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "How was your day?" she asked as he tilted his head to look up at her.

"It was pretty boring," Gustave admitted, stepping away to plop back down on the couch. "I played chess with Papa for a little bit, but I think he got frustrated 'cause I kept winning."

She softly laughed. "Well, you _are_ quite good at chess, dear." He brightened at her compliment.

She joined him on the seat, and for a while she was just comfortable sitting, hugging her son tightly. A few minutes of peace and quiet were much appreciated. However, Gustave eventually got antsy.

"But Mama," he whined, wriggling from her embrace. "Today was your first day of rehearsals-what was it like? What is the theater like? Is it pretty? Does it have a chandelier? What does the song you're singing sound like, is it pretty? Do you get your own dressing ro-"

"Gustave!" she giggled, interrupting him. He was spouting off more questions than she could count. He simply grinned back, enthusiastically waiting for her to tell him all about her day.

"For starters," she began, "It wasn't that eventful. I talked with the conductor, his name was Mr. Turner, and he was quite nice. A friend of mine, Meg, showed me around the opera house, and yes, I got my own dressing room."

Gustave's eyes grew wide with excitement. "When can I see it?" he gasped.

"Soon enough. Maybe I'll take you some time, perhaps in a few days. How does that sound?"

He nodded eagerly, and she continued describing Erik's opera house.

"It's not that big, but made specifically for the Prima Donna of the theater, so it was a bit larger than the others. It was rather pretty," she murmured.

They lapsed into a warm silence before Christine glanced inquisitively at the clock. "Say, where's your father?" Raoul had been supposed to watch Gustave while she was gone, yet she had seen no sign of him since coming home.

"Oh," Gustave took another bite of his biscuit. "He went for a walk right before you came home. I think he is tired."

 _I can't blame him,_ she thought, suppressing a yawn herself.  
She was almost about to suggest that he head to bed when Gustave spoke up once more.

"Um, Mama, since Papa's gone… do you think you could tell me more about you and Papa's past?" he glanced down nervously at his small fingers. "You don't talk about it much."

Christine gulped, knowing full well that this conversation had been bound to happen sooner than later. "Well…" she furrowed her brows, trying to think of the best way of going about this. What happened ten years ago was nothing short of traumatizing for all the parties involved-how does one explain to a child all that had occurred?

"It's very, very complicated, what happened. I-I... It's rather difficult to explain."

Gustave didn't reply, simply sat and tilted his head up patiently.

"Erik and I used to be good friends. He was my vocal instructor when I was a child, you know."

Gustave's eyes grew wide. "Erik taught you to sing?"

"Indeed. And then, after my debut as _Elissa_ in _Hannibal,_ your Papa came in. He recognized me in the performance."

Memories of that eventful night came back in a torrent. A young Raoul holding the bouquet of flowers, his grin wide and proud. She could suddenly recall the excitement she had felt, looking up into his bright, blue eyes. " _Little Lotte,"_ he had asked, stepping forward. " _Where is your red scarf?"_

"For a while, your father courted me, but Erik got angry once he found out, and one night there was a big fight between the three of us."

Christine exhaled slowly. For ten years she had tried not to think of that entire time period. Ten, long years.

"Erik did not like your father very much. They...fought quite a bit, and neither approved of each other. One night, both got fed up. I had performed in Erik's opera as the lead, _Aminta,_ and it...things did not go over well."

 _'Go over well.'_ Her entire statement had enough sugarcoating to make even _Gustave's_ own sweet tooth queasy. 'Twas quite a feat.

Christine couldn't bring herself to mention the obvious. She had chosen Erik, but he had let her go. When she had returned the second time, he had simply left her. After that, she had been told he was dead. Christine's nails dug painfully into her palms.

She remembered the tension down below the Opera house, the intimidating glare of Erik's amber eyes as he forced her to choose. Raoul, staring up at her pleadingly, the Punjab lasso wound too tightly around his neck.

The rough, and at the same time soft feel of Erik's malformed lips against hers. And then again, the second time, with a response. His hands cupping her face tenderly, hesitantly as she _chose_ him.

Those two kisses-she had never felt as at ease as she had in that moment.

"Erik then told me to marry Raoul, I mean, your father." A short pause, followed by, "And so I did."

Thankfully, she was spared before she could accidentally release too much information by Raoul's arrival. The front door opened and he stepped through, looking mildly surprised as his eyes met hers.

"Christine," he said simply. She nodded back, unsure of what to say without sounding terribly awkward.

Fortunately, he settled down beside them, flexing his hands upon his knees. "How was your first day? What is the song like?"

She answered him, relieved for the first calm and not-uncomfortable conversation they'd had in a while. "Rehearsals weren't as exciting as you would think. All my coworkers are nice, and I get my own dressing room to practice in. It's all rather nice." She didn't miss the flash in his eyes at the mention of her dressing room, yet continued anyway. She lay a hand on his for reassurance.

"The aria I am to sing is quite beautiful, called _Love Never Dies._ I can't wait to show it to both of you, you know."

"And I can't wait to hear it," he replied, the corners of his lips upturned in a slight smile.

XXxxXX

It was barely past midnight, and Christine Daae could not see a thing.

 _That had been the first thought to flash in her mind as she stepped carefully through the streets of Paris, the only overhead light being from a few windows. There was no moon._

 _That to account for, it took her over two hours longer than usual to find the Palais Garnier. The entrances were still closed off, but she entered in through the side, a small door more commonly used by cast members to escape larger crowds. Jerking on the handle, she was mildly surprised (and relieved) to find it unlocked. A small part of Christine had worried she would not be able to even get into the opera house, but it appeared all her worries about that aspect were for naught. Closing the door as quietly as she could, she gulped nervously. Christine was no fool, she was well aware the hardest part of her task was yet to come._

 _The echo her feet made as she padded through the halls sounded very loud to her sensitive ears, cringing at every creak she made as she passed along._

 _How desperately she wished to be able to slink through the corridors silently, like a cat. She had always been a little more on the clumsy side, and that aspect of her personality was certainly making a reappearance now._

 _Christine bit back a yelp as she nearly tripped over her own foot, stumbling around the corner. Straightening herself once more, she looked up to find herself at a dead end. Her brows furrowed in confusion as well as annoyance. Had she made a wrong turn somewhere? Christine could have sworn she was going to right way…_

"Lost, Mademoiselle?" _A very,_ very _familiar voice echoed from behind her. Gooseflesh rippled along her arm at the mere sound._

 _Gasping, Christine swiveled on her heel to try and catch sight of the Phantom. The hall that she had ventured in from was still pitch black, unwilling her eyes to even glimpse the masked man._

" _N-no,_ " _she managed to gulp out, so caught up in her surprise at being able to actually find him. Christine, though, was not lost. She was perfectly understanding of where she was going and what she was doing._

He _went silent at her response, and she could only guess what he had discerned from her statement._

"Then what brings you back to this _humble_ establishment at this hour? It is rather late, Christine."

God, _the way her name sounded when murmured caused thoughts that had to be sinful to blossom within her mind. Was it possible to make a simple title, a name sound like a prayer?_

" _I…." her voice faltered once more. All of her fervor, the adrenaline that had boosted this midnight crusade in the first place, left her body in a wave. She was left standing in the hall, feeling very small._

"Well?" _his voice grew stronger, demanding a response. She shivered involuntarily, though not in fear._

" _I came to see you,_ ange _."_

 _Once more he ceased speaking, and the corridor was filled once more with silence. Christine glanced around, still yet fruitlessly searching for that familiar amber pair of eyes in the darkness._

 _Eventually, though, the quiet that hung heavily was too much, and she began to worry that he had left her._ No! _She thought, desperately. Not after she had traveled so far to seek him out._

 _Just as she mustered up enough courage to once more speak, he replied._

"No…" he _murmured_. "Not Angel. I am merely a man, Christine."

 _A desolate, broken and deformed man. The words were unspoken, but they floated on the tips of their tongues._

" _I know," was all she could think of to reply with. "I've known for a while."_

 _His masterpiece,_ Don Juan Triumphante _came to mind from that statement, as well as a small blush that painted her cheeks accompaningly. Yes, a small part of her had always known that was wasn't an angel, but instead merely a man._

 _She recalled the feelings and emotions he had stirred upon that stage, as well as the haunted look in his shocked eyes when she had lifted the hood, and then the mask from his face, exposing him to everyone in the auditorium. He had been at his lowest, most vulnerable point, and she had caused it._

 _Christine felt a small sound echo from behind her, and she turned once more to stare up into his glinting amber eyes. They stared down at her with narrowed suspicion as one of his gloved hands clasped hers. She could feel his breath fan her face as they neared, and her gaze flittered over momentarily to take in the right side of his face. He wore a different mask now, one that was dark black. She felt an odd and unexpected feeling gather in the pit of her stomach… disappointment? Had she expected him to go maskless? Had she_ wanted _him? She was so utterly confused, she did not know what she wanted anymore._

"Tell me, Christine," _he said, his curled leather enveloped-fingers brushing her chin. Even through the material, she could feel his warmth radiating from his palm. She instinctively leaned into his touch._ "Why have you _truly_ come here?"

 _She did not stutter as she gave her response, not anymore. Her words were hushed, her breath quickened as her eyes met his, their gazes both unwavering._

" _I think you already know."_

It was not the first time that Christine woke up with a tear-streaked face, choking back a cry. Nor would it be the last.

* * *

 **Please review! Reviews k** **eep me** **motivated to dispense the chapters out faster.**


	10. Answers-- but Not Today

**Final exams are a complete pain. I cannot wait for mine to be over.**

* * *

Christine went through the following day in a haze of sorts. If Raoul or Gustave noticed, neither of them mentioned anything. She would be sitting at the table, stirring a cup of tea, and her mind would flash back to that night, along with the obligatory guilt that had plagued her for the past decade since.

The dream opened many old wounds she had not been counting on revisiting, as well as many thoughts that she had pushed away long ago.

Erik was… interesting to say the least. He was an enigma that she had never been able to figure out, and his reasoning for returning Gustave had plagued her ever since that night from almost a week ago.

" _I came to my senses,"_ he had said. " _I just hope that someday, in time you will come to forgive me."_

That could mean quite a bit, in terms of things to forgive. Christine's fingers clenched white around the handle of her teacup, deep in thought. She barely noticed the heat from the mug burned her hands slightly.

 _Words only seem to do injustice..._

Gustave was sitting on one of the couches holding a book, his head on his chin, a bored expression on her face. Christine glanced over at him, biting her bottom lip.

 _Forgive him for what he did to_ Gustave?

Christine was (pretty) certain that Gustave hadn't been lying when he said that Erik had never hurt or injured him in any way. The fact that the masked man had apologized in the first place was baffling to Christine. Erik had never really been one to say 'sorry.' At least, not in such a straightforward fashion.

Gustave looked up, noticeably unnerved. "Mama… what's wrong?"

Christine blinked. "Pardon?" Only then did she realize that she had been staring, and gave her son a reassuring smile. "Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I was simply lost in thought."

Gustave hummed and Christine couldn't quite tell if he saw right through her or not, his attention drifting back towards his book. The large tome was in English, not French, and Christine could only roughly understand the title of the cover.

Christine had taken only a little time to study as much English as she could before arriving, and before now it had been enough for her to get by, but she still wished to be better versed in the language. While some Americans knew other languages, English seemed to be dominant. Plus, she supposed it would only help her if she practiced a bit more…

Gustave, on the other hand, had taken like a fish to water once Christine suggested that he learn English. She had bought him a small beginner's English book she had managed to find, and within the week he had the material down and was asking her for another one.

"Already?" she had replied, but not terribly surprised. Gustave was very smart, he had definitely inherited that aspect of his personality from Erik. She had not thought about that at the time, but as she gazed at her son now, she knew it was true.

Gustave must have felt her eyes on him for he glanced up, blinking. "Mama? Is something wrong?"

Christine shook her head. "Hm? Oh, no, I was just thinking, my dear."

Gustave nodded once, looking slightly anxious under her studious gaze, before looking down at his book momentarily.

Christine bit her lip. "Gustave? I need to learn more English if I am to perform in the theater. Could you assist me?"

He nearly dropped his book in his excitement. "Sure!"

Gustave leaped up from his seat, dashing to his room (where one of his English books were stored. Christine had been slightly surprised when she found out he was taking the English books with him, but now she was rather relieved.)

With energy only a ten-year-old is able to possess, Gustave returned with the desired material in his hands. Plopping down beside her, he laid it open on the coffee table before them.

Two hours passed slowly, and Christine stared at the book before her in frustration. Her brow was furrowed as she looked down at Gustave.

"I still don't understand," she sighed. "Why are all the words pronounced so… weirdly?"

"English is odd," was the only explanation her son gave, pointing at the sentence she was supposed to translate.

The sentence was ' _Je prend un sandwich et un cafe.'_ To Gustave, it was simple enough, especially since English and French shared many words (a few had similar pronunciations as well,) so it had been easy for him to grasp a hold on the language.

Christine, though, was having more trouble.

"I will…" she said in English, and then paused.

" _Have_ means the same thing as _prendre,_ Mama. _To have._ " Gustave corrected.

"Alright." A slight pause, she leaned away from the book. She understood what the subject was, (a sandwich and coffee,) but damn, the new words twisted with her tongue and sounded terribly incorrect. English was so… odd. French sounded so much more pleasant. What normal language pronounced their H's?

"I have sandwich and coffee." Christine gave up and turned to her son. "Is that right?"

Gustave gave her a small smile. "Close enough. You're doing good though, English is really difficult."

Difficult it was, indeed. Christine pulled her son in for a tight hug.

"Thank you, Gustave. You are far more patient with me than I deserve."

"You're welcome," he chirped, feeling right at home within his mother's arms.

XXxxXX

A few hours ago Raoul had arrived home, and then took Gustave out on a walk, leaving Christine at home with only her thoughts as company. The not-so-short English lesson with Gustave had been a welcome distraction, but there was not much to do in the small flat now, other than sit and dwell.

Christine gulped. Dwelling was the last thing she wished to do at that moment.

Oh, _why_ hadn't she accepted Raoul's invitation to go to the cafe with them? She had told him she was feeling exhausted, but that wasn't true. Christine felt fine. (Most likely thanks to the substantial amount of tea she had drunk earlier.)

She found herself wandering into her bedroom, before sitting at the vanity. It was white with a large (but not uncomfortably large) mirror, with a few drawers on each side.

Christine turned towards her dresser suddenly, an idea springing to mind. Raoul was gone, she could finally get answers…

But then she remembered that Erik had managed to abscond away with the paper holding the address. She could not visit his home, not now, anyway. She didn't have enough time.

This would not deter her, though. Blame it on the caffeine running through her veins or her stress and guilt, but Christine wanted _answers._

She strode out from her room, into the parlor, reaching and grabbing her scarf from where it hung. She wrapped it around her neck and put her hand on the doorknob. If she headed out now, she might be able to stop in for a short enough visit. She could order him to tell her everything, Christine was still well aware of the power she held over the former Phantom of the Opera.

If she played her cards right, she could know everything she needed to know and still leave back to France by the end of the week.

Christine found herself hesitating, however, and her brows furrowed. The only sound was her breath, coming out quick and nervous. Her heart felt as if it were beating at a thousand miles per minute. It was simply a door-why was it so difficult for her to simply open it and pass through?

Christine let her hand drop from the doorknob, jerking back as if it had burned her palm.

Yes, she could get her answers. But maybe not today.

XXxxXX

Christine bounced slightly on the plush red seat beneath her, still marveling over the magnificence of Erik's opera-house. It truly was amazing, she noted, tilting her head up to stare at the large chandelier. Every day for the past week she had passed underneath it, yet it still stole her breath every time she saw it.

Not only that… it was clear Erik had designed the entire opera house. His touch was everywhere, inescapable, almost suffocating in its intensity.

Yet, oddly enough, she wasn't sure she _wanted_ to run from the theater.

Meg nimbly leaped down from the stage, skipping over to where Christine sat. "C'mon!" her friend giggled, grasping her hands. "You promised you would help me practice for the ballet. I'm a pretty big deal you know. _Prima ballerina."_ she wiggled her tutu-clad hips as she said this.

Christine held back a giggle, standing up and following the blonde dancer up the stairs, over to the wings of the stage. She turned around to gaze into the house, imagining all the seats filled with people, of the attention of thousands of theatergoers trained on _her._

Christine found herself trailing into center-stage, tilting her chin up. She could almost feel the air of excitement in the room before the acts began, of the low chatter. Good _lord,_ she had not realized how much she missed this.

She must have stood there for longer than she thought, for eventually, she felt a light tap on her shoulder.

"Earth to Christine?" her friend's voice asked, waking Christine from her haze.

"S-sorry, I just got carried away." She rubbed her arms, stepping away from the light and beside the shaded curtains. Meg simply gave her a knowing look, humming softly to herself.

As Christine stood in the wings watching the other ballerinas return from their break, she had the oddest feeling that she was being _watched._ Her first thoughts turned towards Erik and that perhaps he had changed his mind. However, the more she thought about it, the more she became sure that Erik was not there. Even as a young girl, back when he used the Angel of Music ruse, she had always been able to sense his presence in some sort of way. _Goodness gracious, Christine! How paranoid can you be?_ She scolded herself.

No, It wasn't Erik. But if not him, then who? Christine turned around, her eyes skimming the theater.

In the corner stood a lone figure, his head tilted to the side. The strange man stood out like a sore thumb, with his mocha colored skin and bright green eyes. His bright green eyes, that were trained directly onto her, wide with what appeared to be... shock. Christine's brow furrowed.

After a few beats, the stranger realized he had been staring, blinking rapidly a few times and looking away. Whoever it was clearly wanted to speak to her, that much was obvious.

Christine was correct as he took a few steps forward, before bowing to her.

"Madame de Chagny, I was not aware you still remained in New York."

 _Still remained?_ She gave him a polite smile.

"I have made no plans to depart quite yet, monsieur…?"

"Khan," he told her. "Nadir Khan. And it truly is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madame."

Nadir Khan. The name sounded terribly familiar, and now _she_ found herself staring, trying desperately to figure out where exactly she had heard his name before.

"If you don't mind me asking…" Nadir was speaking again. "How is your son feeling? I heard he had a bit of an adventure a few days ago." His words were kind as if he were only asking out of politeness, but his eyes expressed an underlying anxiety.

 _Nabeer._

Christine recalled the name Gustave had mentioned that evening. The Nabeer he had talked of must have actually been _Nadir,_ which meant that this polite man before her knew Erik. Christine did not know what to do with this information.

"Oh, he's much better now. Not so eager to go exploring anymore, you know?" she grinned. It was painfully fake, and Nadir probably saw right through it.

"No wonder," he returned her smile, and she could see the immediate change as quite a bit of tension left his shoulders. Afterward, both simply stood there for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. They both had one big... _thing_ in common, but neither knew how to confront the elephant in their room.

It was Christine that eventually broke the silence.

"Monsieur Khan?" she asked, hesitantly.

"Please, call me Nadir."

"Okay… Nadir? It would please me greatly if you met with me in my dressing room. There are some things I would like to discuss with you, _en privé_ _."_

From the fleeting look of foreboding on his face, Nadir Khan understood.

It did not take long before they both arrived at her dressing room, Christine following Nadir in and closing the door- locking it behind her.

"Make yourself comfortable, monsieur," she motioned towards the chaise lounge. He settled on the sette, and she sat across from him.

"I will say, Nadir," she offered him a slightly nervous smile, smoothing her hands over her skirt. "It really is a pleasure to meet you."

He replied likewise, and she glanced down.

"I'm sure you've heard quite a few things about me from Erik."

The words were out before she could control herself, and she raised her gaze to see his response. In any other situation, she would have found his frozen expression comedic. Nadir Khan sat stock-still, his face pale with surprise. Ah, so he must not have counted on Gustave telling her of him.

Admirably, however, he recovered rather quickly.

"How…" he paused to grasp for the right words. "How did you know I was an… acquaintance of Erik?"

Christine exhaled lightly. "Gustave mentioned you when relaying his _adventure_ to me upon his return. Actually, he called you Nabeer, but it wasn't hard to connect the dots."

He chuckled at the last sentence. "My name's been mispronounced many different ways over the years, but _Nabeer_ is a new one."

She nodded, and her new companion leaned back in his seat.

"I don't mean to switch the topic so fast, but I must ask, my dear. Has Erik been to see you since Gustave came back?"

Christine shook her head. "No, I haven't seen a sign of him since that night. I wouldn't be surprised if he had left the state altogether."

Nadir swallowed, his brow furrowed.

"Hm, I don't think Erik would leave so quickly, not before the upcoming show."

"Then you are surprised he has not been to see me, yet?"

He smiled sadly. "I must admit, yes, I am a little surprised. I haven't seen any sign of him since his last visit."

"Oh." was all she said. Christine was not sure whether she was pleased or disappointed by this information. She was stuck in an awkward in-between of the two emotions. Part of her worried he was hurt (or worse,) while the other part (a notably smaller part) was glad she would not be plagued by him.

"Nadir?"

The man in question tilted his head.

"Earlier you said that you were not aware that I still remained in New York. What did you mean by that? Did you think I would leave?" her tone was not unkind-just confused.

He sighed. "Honestly? I half-believed you would. Now that you have Gustave back and you know what Erik is… well… _Erik,_ I did not think anything would hold you down here."

She mirrored his melancholic smile from earlier. "It's not that anything is holding me down, Nadir. Singing this song is something that I feel I must do. And," she glanced down once more at her hands. The words she followed her statement with felt more like a lie at this point. An accessory to back up her claims. "We need the money."

"I see." he murmured.

It was not long after his reply that Nadir Khan bid Christine farewell, leaving the theater and standing on the front steps. As the front doors closed shut behind him, the Persian found himself turning to gaze up at the Opera house. _Erik's_ opera house.

"Great Allah," he muttered. "Erik, what mess have you done to yourself now?"

* * *

 **Tell me your thoughts! Nadir and Christine FINALLY met one another.**

 **Were you satisfied with how things went?**

 **I _promise_ Erik will be in the next chapter.**


	11. The Phantom and the Persian

**Thanks for sticking around with this story. I really appreciate it.**

* * *

To say that Nadir feared for what he would find in Erik's flat was a gross understatement. Erik, when unsupervised, had a tendency to ruin at least one life, whether it be his own or someone else's.

Nadir was terrified. Would he find Erik's flat empty, with the masked man gone without a sign, or would he find blood smeared all over the walls, along with his friend's poor corpse? Nadir sure hoped that he would not find _that._

He grimaced. _How would I explain_ that _to Christine?_

Yet the apartment was quiet when he entered. It wasn't clean by any means- there was a pile of shattered glass beneath the mantle and a mess of papers on the floor, but there was no blood. No dead bodies, be it Erik's or otherwise. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Nadir began by sweeping up the music sheets into a neat and tidy pile, placing them upon the piano. The instrument had a layer of dust on it, he noticed numbly. The Persian's eyebrows knit together with concern as he turned to survey the rest of the room. One of the armchairs was overturned, but besides that, everything in the parlor was as it should be (albeit the neglected feel of the room.) He moved on to the kitchen.

Nadir flinched as glass crunched underfoot, and he looked down to examine an empty, former wine glass.

"Oh my," he whispered.

The entire kitchen was a mess. The liquor cabinet was in pieces, simply a puddle of wood shards on the tile. The wine glass that had just met its unceremonious end was not the only vessel on the floor.

It took him a while to locate a dustpan to collect the sharp pieces with, and it took even longer for Nadir to make the kitchen look even slightly presentable. Eventually Nadir simply gave up, padding back into the living room. It was time to stop beating around the bush and simply finish what he came here to do.

"Erik?" he called. There was no response.

Apprehension filled Nadir as he stepped down the hallway where he knew Erik's bedroom must lay. There were only three doors, but all were closed shut. Nadir once more worried what he would find behind Erik's door. He was _not_ prepared to take care of a dead body.

He chose a random door, slowly opening it to reveal a small bedroom.

Immediately Nadir realized this was where Gustave had stayed. The room was painted pale blue, and the (cheap) carpet was not something that Erik would have ever normally picked for himself. The only sign that anyone had ever slept in the room was the wrinkled bed sheets where the boy had slept, and some sketches strewn on a desk.

The Persian closed the door and moved on to the next room. This door was locked. Nadir had his answer.

He rapped on the wood a few times. After a moment or two (it felt more like an hour had passed,) the locked clicked and the knob turned, revealing a rumpled and _very_ angry Erik.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?" the masked man hissed. His fierce amber eyes glared down at Nadir. Bright and angry.

"I came here to make sure you hadn't drowned in your own misery, _friend."_ he retorted, pushing past Erik into the room.

The bed was a mess, the covers yanked off and onto the floor, everything that had (at one point) been on Erik's bedside table was a mess on the thick carpet. It would be hell to clean.

"Would you care to explain why you have decided to barge into my flat, without my permission?" The former Phantom growled from the entrance, one bony hand still wrapped tightly around the doorknob. As Nadir turned to examine his friend, he noticed how skinny Erik had gotten. He had always been unhealthily thin, but this was a shock compared to how fit he had seemed just a week or two ago.

"Great Allah!" the Persian gasped. "Erik, have you eaten _at all?"_

"Why should I? There's no point in me going on anymore." the man replied. Nadir gave him a blank stare as the other man continued ranting.

"Gustave and Christine have moved on, what do I have left? Nothing but useless love cantatas and arias that will _never be sung._ I have no worth, foolish Persian!"

With ever word Erik seemed to take a step forward, before he and Nadir were standing barely a foot apart. Erik loomed a good head above Nadir, but slowly Erik's anger deflated, and he leaned back. There was a long breath, and the masked man seemed to collapse inwardly on himself.

"I have no worth…"

Nadir hushed him, planting his hands on the other man's shoulders. "I wouldn't say that, my friend. You have plenty of worth, just look at _Phantasma_ all around you. Someone _worthless_ could not even dream up such a place."

Erik breathed a shuddery sigh, shaking his head slightly and backing out of his grip gently. "And what," he swallowed, "Do you suppose I should do without Christine at the season-closing production? She was my catch- the only reason anyone would buy any tickets. If it doesn't draw in any money, what shall I tell the employees?"

"Erik…" Nadir interrupted. "Christine didn't leave, and she's not going to. I saw her today."

A pause, then:

"W-what?" Erik swung around to stare, wide-eyed at Nadir. "You are pulling my leg, Nadir. This is no joking manner."

"I'm not kidding, Erik. I saw her at rehearsals this afternoon. I was as shocked as you were, but she said she was planning on following through with her promise. She'll still be presenting."

The silence in the room that followed his statement made Nadir worry that the masked man was about to go into cardiac arrest. Erik stood stock-still in shock, the only motion being the tense clenching and unclenching of his hands.

Eventually, Erik regained control of his functions, giving himself a slight shake and turning his back on Nadir.

"Then," he breathed. "It seems that she is an even bigger of a fool than you are."

XXxxXX

Erik busied himself for the next few minutes by cleaning up the house the best that he could, mostly to ignore Nadir and secondly to gather his thoughts.

 _Christine had… stayed?_

The concept was so terribly foreign to him, the idea slipping through his fingers every time it flashed in his mind.

 _She was here. Still in New York. She isn't going to leave._

 _She's still singing. For_ him.

Erik hissed as he absentmindedly sliced his finger on a sharp piece of glass. Drops of blood beaded at the cut, as he examined it ruefully.

"You hurt yourself," came the tired voice of the Persian. "You'd best wash it out before it gets infected."

"No need to mother me, Daroga," Erik growled. "I've survived the past forty-something years without one-I do not need you to tell me what to do."

The only response he received was an irritated exhale.

Nevertheless, Erik cleaned the cut and wrapped the finger in a small bandage. The injury wasn't _too_ deep, after all.

And then, later one, once he was all alone, Erik knew what he had to do.

His cloak and hat were set out, untouched from their usual hooks by the door. He slid them on with ease, foregoing changing into a nicer shirt or pants, and headed out into the black of night.

It couldn't have been any later than 1:00 AM, after all. He hadn't bothered to check.

Erik treasured his privacy to a great amount, not usually wishing to go out in public all too often. Besides the times he spent out managing his employees at the Opera house (and occasionally the rest of the park, but he had others to do that job for him. He was more of a _fund-raiser_ of sorts than an actual owner at times,) he did most of his work at home or in his office. But he hated that office, so he tried not to use it all too often. It was stifling, and suffocating, and so damn dreary. Unlike the rest of his glorious opera house.

And now he found himself at the side door of the building in question, his cloak clutched tightly around himself. He slid inside the side entrance without any issues.

Erik found himself at a loss upon arrival at his destination. Since completion of _her_ dressing room (and it had always been envisioned as hers, even subconsciously,) he had not stepped foot inside of the cursed room.

And now he was standing in front of the large, floor to ceiling mirror that stood in the very back on it. He hated himself. He hated himself so terribly much at that moment.

Yet still he found a piece of parchment (and a pen) and quickly scribbled out his note. He decided to forego any other quirks that had accompanied his letters to her in the past. This one was simple written with black ink, no special signature, no red rose, no nothing. Just _Christine_ written on the front.

 _There wasn't anything else I can do,_ he found himself realizing, almost numbly. _It's all up to_ her _now._

Only she could decide whether to accept or decline what he had in mind.

And while his heartbeat accelerated at the thought of her, he still felt that oh-so familiar pang of anxiety he was coming to loath.

XXxxXX

Christine Daae was exhausted. Gustave had awoken from a nightmare a little past midnight (something to do with a castle and ghosts- he was hardly coherent,) and she had been unable to fall back asleep. She had managed to spill her tea on her dress after she had just changed out of her nightgown, and by the time she was ready to depart, she had been a full two hours late.

She said a fleeting 'hello' to Meg and a few of the other ballerinas, before stumbling to her dressing room. Perhaps she could take a nice and short nap before practicing by herself for a few hours?

But no, there was a letter on her desk, and her name was written on it. She recognized that handwriting. How could she ever forget?

After not hearing a word from him for over two weeks, she was still surprised. She read the letter with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

 _Christine,_

 _I have recently been informed that you are indeed going to proceed with singing the aria at the season-finishing performance._

 _In that case, you will most likely require a tutor once more. I can return your voice to its former splendor. I formally request that you allow me to teach you once more._

 _No strings attached, no catch. I will not expect anything more of you than your voice, and you can leave at any moment you wish._

 _If you wish to decline my invitation, take the paper- burn it- throw it away for all I care. I shall never bother you again and once more I shall mention that you would be free to leave. If you accept, leave the letter here and arrive in two days time at rehearsal. Unless you have any objections, we shall practice in a small studio at the other end of the theatre. Meg will know what room, simply ask her if you cannot find it._

 _Cordially, Erik_.

She read it again. And again.

She squeezed the paper a few times to make sure it wasn't real, and that this wasn't another dream where she would wake up, back in France. Christine folded it in half and simply held the note in her hands.

It was so formal she didn't quite know what to think. She had been practicing by herself for the most part, but she was no fool and knew how much more helpful it would be to be taught once more by Erik. Her voice had been spectacular under his instructions, and she wanted nothing more than instructions.

They could both benefit from this arrangement.

Christine steadily set the note back down where she had found it, turning away to face the mirror as if she could simply ignore the letter on her desk. She ran through her scales, keeping her eyes trained on her reflection.

But she still found her gaze drifting over to the desk, her thoughts trained on anything but her practice. After she faltered in her notes a few too many times, Christine excused herself to sit down on the sette, settling her chin on her hand, staring at the desk that sat adjacent.

Christine leaned back on the couch, yawning a little as she did so. After all, she _was_ very tired. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to finally take that short nap she had been thinking about.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep long past the afternoon. It was a good six hours later when she awoke, rehearsals having ended a while ago. Christine swore under her breath, jerking up and running a hand through her now-mussed hair. She'd have to run to race home, that was for sure.

XXxxXX

Raoul accosted her the moment she stepped through the door.

"Where were you?" he breathed, his hands wrapped around her forearms.

"A-at work, why-"

"You were gone so long, I didn't know what to think! I was terrified, Christine. What kept you so late?"

She pried herself from his grip, half-heartedly glaring at him as she hung her hat on the designated hook.

"I was tired, and so I took a nap. It was not my intention to sleep as long as I did. I am sorry."

Raoul appeared satisfied by her explanation, leaning back and glancing warily at the hallway. Gustave must have been in his room.

"I didn't mean to yell at you," he sighed after a moment.

This caught her attention. Christine turned to look at him.

"I know I've been high-strung lately. I know it seems ridiculous but…"

"But?"

Now he was the one to turn away, sitting on the couch and rubbing his face.

"Back when Gustave was missing, a small part of me was worried that it was the Phantom that had him in his grips. Crazy, right? That creature is long-dead, and yet he still haunts me beyond the grave." He twisted in his chair to see her reaction. "Isn't it crazy?"

Her brow furrowed, but she did not reply immediately as she moved to sit across from him.

"I don't think there's any use dwelling on it anymore. Gustave is safe, the Phantom is gone."

He hummed noncommittally. "For a few moments I was worried that you had been spending time with _him,_ and that's why you were so late."

Christine smiled at him softly.

"Raoul.. I think you need some sleep. You must be tired, and you've had a few too many beers."

"I've only had a few," he complained, his accompanying yawn betraying his exhaustion.

"'Only a few' is a few too many," she muttered beneath her breath, holding out a hand and helping him up. He appeared to have not heard, but even if he had it wouldn't have been much big of a deal. Raoul was well aware how much she disliked his drinking. It wasn't that he was violent or mean when drunk (If he had, she would have left him as soon as his addiction began-) she simply appreciated a spouse that was _all there,_ as so to speak.

"It's only eight o'clock," he huffed as she opened the bedroom door, but yielded beneath her warm hands as she gently pushed him.

"Goodnight, dear," she said and headed back into the parlor. She'd follow him in an hour or two, but she wasn't yet ready to sleep. Not when her nerves were as spiked as they were with memories of that afternoon.

Perhaps a late night cup of tea would do her some good. Chamomile tea, preferably.

While waiting for her drink to ready, she hurried and quietly changed out of her day dress into a comfortable nightgown. It was her favorite, one that she had made sure to bring back from France. While most of her nightgowns were off-white, this one was a soft blue with ruffles along the neckline and at the bottom hem. She breathed a sigh of relief to be freed from the restricting corset, her hands playing absentmindedly with the sides of the dress.

A few minutes later she stood before the large window, mug in hand. Christine stared out at the street below, which was void of any people at this time at night. She raised a hand to the glass, pressing her palm against it after a moment and watching the fingerprints left behind.

"It has to be around ten by now," she murmured, stifling a yawn of her own as she retracted her hand from the surface, preparing to close the drapes and call it a night.

And then she noticed something.

She blinked, and her stomach did a small somersault.

On the railing of the deck sat a rose, all alone, with a black satin bow tied around the stem.

* * *

 **I am BEGGING for reviews. On my knees. Please drop a review. What did you think of his letter? What do you think will happen next?**


	12. Feel Like the Others

**Unfortunately, I've decided to abandon Culpabilitie. I no longer have any interest in writing fanfiction for LND, and while I'm sad to scrap this, I simply haven't had any fun writing it anymore. I've decided to post the majority of what I'd had written for chapters twelve and thirteen and simply say goodbye to this fic there. Thanks to all my readers, I greatly appreciated the feedback!**

 **XXxxXX**

Her hands were fisted into her skirt, twisting the fabric between her fingers as she walked down the hallway.

 _Click, click, click,_ her shoes seemed too loud, the sound as the heel touching the floor echoing around her. It clicked in tandem with her rapidly beating heart.

She caught her reflection in a passing ballerina's hand mirror. She looked as exhausted as she felt. She had gotten no sleep the previous night, nor barely any the night before. She had used a substantial amount of makeup to cover up the dark bags beneath her eyes as well as brushed out her unruly mane, but even _she_ wasn't sure it helped any.

Oh, why did the rehearsal have to be at the other end of the building? She was more than ready to begin and simply get it all over with. Christine wanted to go home, and finally be able to sleep. Sleep for another decade, preferably.

Her hand grasped the doorknob before she even realized.

Nausea tugged at her stomach as she turned it, opening the door to reveal the small studio. There was a couch on one side, plush persian carpeting below, and a grand piano on the other end.

On the piano bench sat a man. His suit was neatly pressed, and clearly expensive- and then he turned to face her, standing up.

"...Madame," was all Erik said, bowing ever so slightly as she came to stand before him. How did her legs manage to work? Her tongue felt as if pressed down by a thousand weights, yet her mind was spinning.

"Maestro," she murmured, curtsying.

 _He_ did not appear to waste any time, stepping away to face the piano once more.

"Shall we begin? You have a mere three weeks until the performance." he pressed a key on the keyboard, indicating for her warm ups to begin.

Easily she fell back into the role of student and him as instructor, almost feeling as if she were back once more at the Populaire and he stood behind her mirror, her _ange,_ and she was simply Christine Daae, a pitiful chorus girl aiming for the stars.

Then she opened her eyes and drank in his form and realized that those days were long gone.

Yet his skill was unchanged, his ease as his fingers flew across the piano still breathtaking. She had not forgotten how talented he was (never that,) but it was one thing to remember it, and another to re experience it.

"Shall we stop for a break?" his voice cut into her thoughts, shaking her from her revere. Two hours at least must have passed- a break was much needed.

"I… that sounds like a good idea," she replied, and moved to sit on the couch. Her poured her a glass of water from a pitcher she had not realized was there, and held it out to her.

Her heart pounded as their fingers brushed for a millisecond. She thanked him quietly, sipping the glass he had given her.

Once she had finished her water and had rested for a few minutes, he beckoned to her with a hand.

"We have around an hour left," he said. "Let's resume."

And so they did. Another sixty minutes flew by, and she found herself puzzled when, later, he stopped playing (and she singing) and stretched.

"Is that all?" she blinked. He cast her an amused glance.

"Do you want to go on? It's getting rather late, you should return to your flat for the evening."

It _was_ getting rather late after all, as the clock on the wall (yes, she had just noticed that as well) told her. She would have to return home sooner than later, in fear that Raoul would have a repeat of the last time she came home late.

She began to bid goodbye, stretching her legs a little when he spoke again.

"Wait."

She did so, watching him as he turned fully to face her. For the first time that evening, the unmasked side of his face was filled with apprehension.

"I'm sorry, Christine," that had been the first time that night he had called her anything other than _Madame,_ "I have to know, how is Gustave doing? Is he recovering well?" His voice cracked ever so slightly at the last sentence.

Her blues eyes widened a little at his question, but she wasn't offended.

A small part of her whispered her that he had a right to enquire after Gustave. After all, he _was_ his birth father- but Erik did not know that. That was why she found his worry for Gustave so confusing.

What a morbidly funny situation theirs was.

"Gustave is doing fine, he is very excited for the performance," she feigned a smile.

She closed the door behind her, and immediately sunk against the frame and slid onto the floor. She was trembling all over, and no matter what she did she could not seem to stop herself.

This was going to be a long three weeks.

XXxxXX

That night she sat up in her bed, making sure Raoul was fast asleep before carefully extracting herself from the tangled sheets and tiptoeing over to the desk, sliding the bottom drawer open as silently as possible to look at the contents.

She was sure the desk had gotten more use in the past three days than it had over the span of their entire stay, what with her stopping to reread the letter and the rose stored within constantly, so it seemed.

"It's not a dream," she whispered to herself, reaching forward to gently pinch the black satin between her thumb and forefinger. She rubbed the fabric absentmindedly. "It's not a dream."

XXxxXX

The agreement was two days a week, and sure enough, forty-eight hours later she showed up once more at the small room.

Christine opened the door, and there he stood. Erik raised his visible eyebrow as she neared, yet only spoke once she came to stand directly before him.

"You are early," he commented. She blinked a few times before glancing up at the clock. He was correct, she had arrived nearly ten minutes early.

"Is that so surprising?" she dared to give him a small smile. "I thought it would take me longer to arrive, but I suppose I was incorrect."

He nodded, stepping away to press a few keys on the piano.

"Shall we begin?"

It wasn't as if there was much else to do. She warmed up, and they immediately began with the first section of the song.

Love Never Dies… she hadn't realized how pretty the aria had been until he was accompanying her. The piano seemed to lift her voice, spreading life to it once more and letting her… what was the word? _Soar._ Yes, her voice was soaring.

And she loved it. Singing was like a drug, once she began she could not stop, and even when she managed to break away the urge, the _need_ threatened to devour her.

She would be lying if she said it did not frighten her. He played the instrument with such intensity- looked at _her_ with such fire- sometimes she felt as if she were about to drown in it all.

And then something peculiar happened.

Erik moved to stand up, placing his hands on the lid of the instrument as if he were about to right himself. He must not have seen the glass pitcher, for he accidentally knocked it over and it shattered on impact. Sharp slivers of glass spread across the floor.

Surprise flitted across the unblemished half of his face as he reached down, most likely to grab the larger shards. Was he crazy? Grabbing broken glass with bare hands was practically begging for an injury!

Christine raced forward. "No, don't touch it, the glass-"

He picked a piece up and dropped it immediately as it scored across his palm, leaving long scratches in its wake. Blood slowly welled in the cut.

He hissed beneath his breath, and she took his hand gently in hers.

"Erik!" she scolded. "You know you're not supposed to touch broken glass. Do you _want_ to get hurt?"

He stiffened- she assumed it was due to the pain. Judging from how quickly he was bleeding, he was probably in a lot.

Christine led him over to the chaise and had him sit, pulling out her own handkerchief from a pocket and began tying it around his palm. It would have to do until she could get him an actual bandage.

And already his blood was staining through her handkerchief. God, how deep did he manage to cut his hand? As well as the fact he was barely responding to her. Erik still seemed to be frozen.

What if he lost too much blood? Christine was no medical professional, she only used what little information she knew and pressed her thumb to his wrist to make sure his pulse was still alright. His heart was beating a little fast, but other than that he seemed to be okay.

She looked up into his eyes, his shocked, golden irises as they stared down at her. His mouth moved as if he wanted to speak, but no words came to his tongue.

She meant to move her hand back, but he gripped her with such fierceness she could not pull away. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, but still tight enough to be a little uncomfortable.

"I... you…" he gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing. She waited patiently.

"Y-you called me _Erik."_

"That is your name, is it not?" she tilted her head.

"Yes… but I never told you my name."

 _Oh._ In her rush she had not even realized she had said his name, or that it was the first time she had ever called him _Erik_.

"Madame Giry told me, when I went to see her." Christine explained softly, her thumb rubbing small circles on his wrist now. "I hope you do not mind?"

"N-no, it doesn't bother me." From the way his voice shook and his un-cut hand reached to ghost her hair, he seemed to rather like it. She shivered.

"In fact," he pulled his good hand away, resting it in his lap. "I would not be opposed to you calling me Erik in our lessons. I believe we've long passed the stage of cold formalities. That is- if you want. It's all up to you... Madame."

He was right, they had long passed the stage of 'Madame' and 'monsieur.' They had gone through so much, seen _so much_ together, it almost felt comedic.

"And you may call me Christine," she replied, patting the handkerchief lightly before standing up and away from his grip. In turn she received a small smile from him.

"Now," she changed the subject. "We ought to get you an actual bandage. I don't think the handkerchief will hold for much longer."

XXxxXX

That night Gustave requested that she sing a few lines from her aria.

"You don't want me to keep it a surprise?" she raised an eyebrow, her lips upturned in a sly smile.

"Well, don't sing me the FULL song, just a little bit, Mama."

She would have obliged even if he had begged for her to sing the entire song. But the very beginning of it sufficed as well, and she found herself grinning at the awed expression on Gustave's face when she finished. Even if it was barely sixty seconds long.

"You liked it?" she asked, though the question did not need to be said- Gustave was nodding up and down enthusiastically in agreement.

"You sound great!" he gasped. Her grin widened, if possible. Christine looked up to meet Raoul's gaze… but his had a different expression on it.

"Is something wrong?" she asked. Had she been too pitchy? She knew she was still straining on those high notes, her two lessons with Erik _had_ already helped her improve. Hopefully she would be able to achieve the same level of skill she had reached back when she was younger, at the Opera house.

"I… no," he shrugged. "You sounded fine. I just thought it was a bit of a weird song selection. Stupid, I know. Just ignore me."

She pursed her lips together for a moment, thinking of a way to reply and approach this topic gingerly.

"Weird?" she tilted her head. "How so?"

"Really, It's nothing." he waved his hand dismissively, and while her curiosity was in full swing, she dropped it. It wasn't worth starting a fight over.

XXxxXX

The next few rehearsals went without issue. Erik stayed as stoic and professional as ever, and Christine returned to pretending everything was fine.

Except it wasn't.

"Chri _stine_ ," he exhaled, running a hand through his wig. "You are distracted, and it is near impossible to instruct you when you are unable to _listen."_

"I'm sorry," she looked down at her feet.

"Don't apologize- just _do._ Shall we begin again?" he tapped a few experimental keys on the piano.

Christine nodded, straightening her back and taking a deep breath as he played the intro of the song.

She barely got a minute into the aria, however, before he stopped her once more.

"Is there something on your mind? A reason you cannot focus?"

She bit her tongue when she began to apologize once more. "I wasn't able to sleep very well last night." Nor the night before.

"As you have mentioned previously." A frown appeared on his face, and he turned to face her, now. "Christine… you need a sufficient amount of sleep in order for your voice to be the best it can."

"I know. Really, Erik, I do. I promise that I will get enough sleep from now on."

"Good," he said, standing up and walking towards her. "Perhaps you should go rest for a bit. I do not want to wear out your voice."

"Are you sure?" she tilted her head. "We have so few rehearsals left."

"Two more weeks, to be specific." he put his hand over hers. She glanced down at it and then up at his eyes. "And that's plenty of time. You've been doing well- we can spare one rehearsal." Erik said.

"Thank you, Erik," she gave him a small smile. She _was_ very tired, after all. "I'll come back Wednesday, then."

He made a small bow. "If it pleases you, Madame."

It did.


End file.
